Sowing Chaos
by Slide
Summary: Sequel to Tide of Destiny. As the Bhaalspawn wars rage in Tethyr, Harrian Corias and his party fight for survival and against the taint of a dead God... for events have shown that you do not need to be a Child of Bhaal to be affected by murder's call...
1. Chapter I: Skies of Blood

**Chapter I: Skies of Blood**

Anomen Delryn sensed any resolve he might have borne previously fading as it felt as if his very soul was being pierced by the twin orbs of glittering gold that were the eyes of the man who faced him. Why was he here? Why was he doing this? What was going on?

He looked away from the golden eyes and turned his gaze skywards, to the clouds that seemed to be raining blood, filling the sky with a shimmering maelstrom of crimson for as far as he could see. The ground around him was littered with bones that made disconcerting crunching noises as he shifted his feet uncomfortably, and a sickened feeling rose up in his stomach, threatening to overpower even the grim determination that was upon him.

Fresh bodies still surrounded the man with the golden eyes, bleeding from wounds too numerous to count when Anomen focused his attention back on him, gripping the shining Flail of Ages in his slightly shaking hand. "Harrian," he spoke, his voice sounding confident in a way that was alien to his ears as he drew himself up straight. "What are you doing? What do you _think _you are doing?"

Harrian Corias turned slightly, the glistening blue blade of the Equaliser hanging a little limply, currently unused, in his hand. "Doing?" he asked, seeming highly unconcerned. His golden eyes fixed on Anomen, and the cleric suppressed a shiver. "What does it look like I'm doing, Delryn?"

Suddenly, a man stumbled into existence, almost tripping over the bones by Anomen as he staggered towards Harrian. His clothes were bland and simple, his face blank and unfamiliar. Anomen did not recognise him, and was quite sure that he wasn't supposed to.

Harrian's eyes lit up with glee as the man approached, the Equaliser screaming to life in his hand. As Anomen watched, unable to move, react, or intervene, the Bhaalspawn lunged forwards, thrusting his sword into the man's gut. Without making a sound, he fell to the floor, becoming just one more body on a pile, and Harrian pulled his blade out calmly. There was no blood on the shining metal, Anomen realised with a start – it was all on Harrian's hands.

"It looks like you're murdering," the cleric told him slowly, still speaking in that horrible hollow, cold, determined voice that embodied none of the emotions that were currently churning through his gut. "I have to stop you." The Flail of Ages felt massive and unwieldy in his hands, and he was sure he wouldn't be able to put it through a single swing. How was he supposed to stop anyone?

Harrian was regarding him casually, the sword now loose and limp in his hand. He had a strange, distant look on his face, as if Anomen's words had gone in one ear and out the other. As Anomen watched cautiously, it took the Bhaalspawn a few more moments until he actually reacted.

"Murdering?" Harrian repeated quietly, swinging the Equaliser casually. "Yes. I suppose I am murdering, at that. But it's not as simple as that. It's cleansing. These bodies… all of these bodies… are the bodies of Bhaalspawn." He paused, and turned to gesture with his blade at the last body, the body of the inconsequential man he had cut down without a second thought. "Except for him. He was just in the way." Harrian hesitated again, frowning, then gestured to another pile of bodies, where Anomen could hardly make out a single distinctive form in the mass of blood and death. "And her. But… these people…" He made a grand sweep of his arm, his expression lightening. "They're my 'siblings'. And they die."

Anomen felt cold in his stomach. "All of them?" he repeated quietly, again with the grim determination he didn't know he had. "Why?"

"Because… they also stand in my way." Harrian drew himself up to his full height. "Those who stand in my way, fall. I am the greatest, the most powerful of the Children of Bhaal. I am one of the most powerful mortals to walk Faerûn, Delryn. And those who try to stop me, die!"

Bile rose up in Anomen's throat, but he took a threatening step forward, the fatalistic feeling writhing inside him actually prompting him to now summon up the resolve and determination himself. "Why? Those who try to stop you from what?"

Harrian stared at him, his golden eyes glowing. "Godhood," he said simply, and smiled a feral smile. "I shall ascend, take my father's throne. And the rivers shall run red with blood, the sky shall turn the crimson shade of death, and the ground shall be littered with the bodies of the murdered. And _none _shall stand in my way!"

"None?" Anomen asked quietly, his voice as tight as steel as he hefted the Flail of Ages cautiously. "I think not. I _have _sworn an oath, you know."

Harrian paused in his ranting, and lowered his blade to look at the Helmite. "You have, Delryn? When? What oath?"

Anomen raised his chin ever so slightly. "Once I knew of your heritage, when Keldorn warned me of the darkness within you and I stayed by your side regardless… I swore that I would keep you on the side of light." He shifted his feet a little. "Then I saw how I alone could not do that – how _none _of us except you could do that – and so I bound myself to a new vow. A different vow." Anomen stared Harrian in the eye, and took a deep breath. "Darkness falls upon your soul, and my blade falls upon your head. You fall sway to murder, Harrian, to your tainted blood; you get lost in the evil within you and do its bidding, and I _swear_, I shall slay you myself."

Harrian looked at him slowly, then stretched his arms out, his sword seeming like an extension of himself in the simple movement. "Then go on," he said quietly, simply. "Slay me."

Unsure of himself, Anomen took a step forward, just as Harrian threw his free hand out. There was a space of at least two metres between the two men, but energy rippled along in front of Harrian's hand, imperceptible but plainly there, and Anomen felt himself knocked backwards by a force so powerful it was incredible he managed to stay on his feet as he staggered agitatedly.

"See?" Harrian said at last as the Helmite succeeded at staying upright – barely. "That is only a taste of the power I wield. I could have blasted you across this plain of death. I could have sapped all life from your body with a single move. I could have pointed, and you'd then be dead."

Anomen let out a short bark of humourless laughter. "Mages have tried that before," he commented wryly. "And if you could, then why did you not?"

"A warning." Harrian's eyes glowed ominously. "But it seems you need a little bit more convincing. Have no fear. I shall prove it to you – I shall count to five, and then you will be dead." At Anomen's look, he raised his free hand again, and another body stumbled into existence out of nothingness.

Anomen knew this new arrival well. Very well. Much more than he would have wanted to. He'd almost been killed – or _had_ been killed, or something horribly in between – by the man before him. The shell of a man. Whatever was left in the body of Jon Irenicus.

"One." Harrian's voice echoed in the world with no walls, and his sword swung in a blow that crashed across Irenicus' chest, not stabbing deep but practically ripping his torso open with a single slash. As the unknown man before had, Irenicus fell without a word.

But it was not over, for the moment the once-elven mage's body hit the sea of other bodies, someone else staggered into existence. Reynald, wearing an armour of the deepest black tinged with crimson, his giant Warblade adorned with a skull carved into the hilt. Anomen somehow felt he knew this vision of his friend even less than he had known Irenicus.

"Two." The Equaliser slashed at the weak point in Reynald's armour, the neck, and blood gushed from the wound liberally. The Fallen Paladin tumbled to the floor silently, no expression on his face, no word on his lips, no pain visible in his body. Just dead.

And again someone appeared; Jaheira, looking as she always had save the vacant expression on her face, and Anomen could not fight down the bile and the returning memories as Harrian turned to face her, no recognition, malice, or indeed any other emotion on his face.

"Three." She died as the others had, and fell as soundlessly, cut down by her lover who did not bat an eyelid or carry a shred of recognition.

_Who next? _Anomen asked himself, his stomach now churning, the Flail of Ages hanging uselessly at his side in the face of this display. It was a foolish question, for he already knew the answer he didn't want to hear. _Not…_

Indeed, it was, for the fourth person to stagger into these fields of blood, emerging out of nothingness, was Imoen, her eyes shining, a smile on her lips, and completely oblivious to the world around her. Knowing what was to come, Anomen urged his limbs into activity, trying to launch forward and stop the inevitable sequence.

"Four." He was too late; Harrian's sword moved through the air smoothly and he ran his sister through without hesitation, thought or deliberation. Anomen's stomach twisted.

He had nothing left in him, no resistance, no fear, no anger, no sickness, no emotion. So when Harrian finally turned to face him, Anomen merely met the gaze of those glittering golden orbs without consideration, unable to move or raise his flail or fight.

Harrian paused at this point, not moving as quickly as he had with the arrival after arrival of friend and foe to be murdered. He raised his sword and pointed it at Anomen, his expression now cool and appraising, evaluating the cleric. "Do you see now? You cannot stop me. None can stop me."

"This is true," Anomen said quietly, his stomach feeling like ice. "I cannot stop you."

"So come," Harrian said quietly, lowering the sword and raising his hand this time. "Come, and be murdered." There was a pause as Harrian took a breath and Anomen closed his eyes, pre-empting the darkness he knew would come. "_Five_."

The jolt that ran through Anomen's body jerked him out of sleep, out of the nightmare, away from the plains of blood, away from dreams and back to reality, to his room in Suldanessellar. The sheets on his bed were twisted and cold and drenched in his sweat as he sat bolt upright, panting and gasping once he had released the breath he hadn't known he was holding, and a shiver ran over his entire body.

"A dream," he mumbled to himself, trying to calm his racing heart as his eyes turned to the windows, to the night of the elven city. "Just a dream, Anomen. A figment of your imagination."

He ran a hand through his messy hair nervously, then shook his head slowly, his breath still fast and ragged. "It is true," he whispered to himself. "I cannot stop you." He paused, mulling his words over, until he took a deep, calming breath and nodded. "_Not today, anyway_. Or tomorrow. But you will not fall to darkness today or tomorrow anyway. And so my oath still holds true."

He knew he would not sleep any more that night.


	2. Chapter II: Dreamscape

**Chapter II: Dreamscape**

The night air of Suldanessellar was cool as Anomen rolled out of his bed, weary but wide awake, and cast his gaze around his room for his abandoned tunic. He found it exactly where he'd left it, discarded on the nearest stool, and stumbled towards the mirror as he pulled it over his head.

He lit the candle on the desk, and raised his head to examine his reflection in the mirror. The hard lines around and bags under his eyes, traces of wear and tension all over his face and the slightly hollow cheeks that had all come from the mad hunting of Irenicus had faded over the last month. Suldanessellar had been relaxing and calming, with his days filled with either idleness or helping where he could with the elven reconstruction, and until that night, that dream, darkness had hardly crept in on his thoughts.

Now his face did not look old beyond its years, his eyes had regained something of their past shine, his beard enjoyed the immaculacy that came of regular ease of trimming, and the only part of him which was not perfectly groomed was his hair, which he had for some unfathomable reason allowed to grow a little longer. It had to be the elven influence – he would have to cut it soon. It just looked messy.

Anomen had half-expected to be greeted with haunted eyes, a haggard and gaunt face, an expression tainted by weariness and tension. The fact that he looked as hale and hearty as he ever had chased away some of the fear that lingered from the nightmare, and he took a deep breath. "Just a dream, Anomen," he repeated to himself, scrubbing his face, and straightened up. Dream or not, slumber would not come tonight.

He picked up the candle and padded over to the door leading to the large room the party was using as a communal area. He did not know what he would fill the night with, but there were all sorts of books and subjects to study on the shelves around the communal room. Or he could attempt some drilling in the room they had set aside for their gear and weapons ever since Reynald had destroyed a small table when practicing with his sword in the main room.

Simply, he had expected to be left for his own devices for the duration of the few hours until dawn broke. Thus he was highly surprised to see a candle lit in the communal room, shedding just enough light to cast erratic shadows about from where it sat in the centre table, a familiar shape perched on a chair and huddling over this source of illumination.

Anomen raised an eyebrow slowly, raising his candle to cast more light on the room. "Imoen?"

Imoen looked up quickly, clearly surprised, and Anomen instantly saw how she had not been as fortunate as he in evading any visual markings of her anxiety. Worn eyes registered astonishment at his presence for a moment, until the pink-haired mage shook her head and smiled at him, fortunately quite genuinely. "Anomen. Hey. What're you doing up?"

A little gratitude, pleasure at his appearance, and that tightness hidden in her voice that denoted fear. It had been present for so many weeks in the hunt for Irenicus that Anomen hardly realised he had recognised it.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," he said instead, moving over to sit himself down on the opposite chair. "But you did ask first." He shrugged, setting his own candle down next to hers. "I just had… an odd dream. Nothing too serious, but quite disconcerting."

Imoen leant back, studying him with worried eyes. "Anything you want to talk about?" she asked, shifting a little. In her hands she held Boo, the hamster, who was curled up in a ball and evidently sleeping happily. The fact that Anomen didn't want to sneeze was a reason he had taken the seat opposite her.

He shook his head. "I… no. It shall pass. It was just one of those odd, disconcerting dreams where it is hard to tell truth from reality, and was… disturbing once I woke up." Anomen shrugged. It was half-true. It was not a complete lie. "And now your turn, my lady," he continued, fixing her with a concerned look.

Imoen shifted a little, drawing up her knees under her and curling in a little. "I… had a nightmare," she admitted, not meeting his eye. "Quite a scary one. Sailing on rivers of blood." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "And it's just… Harrian, when he could ever remember a single dream he had – which is never very often – spoke of things like that. Dreams from the taint."

Anomen leant forward, trying to keep the surprise and worry from his face. He knew Imoen would not need that. "Is there anything you… want to explain? I shall listen," he said quietly, trying to sound as comforting as possible.

"I… don't know." Imoen reached forward to set Boo down on the desk. The little hamster shifted a little, then scurried over to the candle and curled up again. "It was just… so real. Scary. I don't know what to make of it."

Anomen stood at last, and slowly walked around to sit next to her on the chair. The seat was quite small, so there was not too much room for both of their frames, but Imoen shifted to leave space and huddled close to him once he had sat down. She didn't pull back as he gently put his arm around her, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"If there is anything you wish to share, any burdens you wish to pull off your shoulders, do not hesitate to say," he whispered, kissing her forehead gently, his brow furrowed with concern. "Do you wish me to stay here?"

"Not if you plan on going back to sleep," Imoen replied stubbornly, her actions not matching up with her words as she curled closer to him. "I'll be quite alright."

"I won't sleep," Anomen said simply. "My… mind will clearly not be at rest enough to allow it. But if you think you might, and if my presence might help… you merely need to say the word." He reached for her hand gently, entwining their fingers.

Imoen shook her head slightly. "No. I… don't think that sleep will come." She paused, clutching his hand, and took a deep breath. "But if you want to stay here… then… please, feel free to…"

A slight smile tugged at Anomen's lips as he kissed her forehead again. "Very well. I shall stay here."

He had thus anticipated that they would remain where they were for the rest of the night, until the sun rose and chased their fears – hers spoken, his internal – away with its bright light. So he almost jumped out of his skin when one of the other doors opened and a sweaty Reynald de Chatillon entered the room, gripping his sword and looking highly confused at the sight of them.

"Is this… some late night gathering I missed?" the Fallen Paladin asked quietly, blinking and raising his own candle higher to illuminate the room a little bit as Imoen and Anomen shifted away from each other, seemingly guiltily. "Or is everyone else suffering from a rather sleepless night?"

Imoen blinked at Reynald, grabbing her own candle and Boo quickly. "I… it's…" She stumbled over her own words before pausing and gathering herself. "You couldn't sleep either?" she asked slowly.

Anomen gave them both a wry expression, turning his gaze towards the door leading to the room shared by Harrian and Jaheira. "I do not think that everyone is suffering from a sleepless night."

Reynald shrugged, resting the sword against the wall and adjusting his tunic a little. "I was merely restless, and thought I would do some drilling." He grinned at Anomen briefly. "Oh, I am quite sure that the two of them are suffering from a sleepless night. I just rather doubt that they'll want to share the reason with any of us."

Anomen chuckled again, feeling a sense of normality starting to return to him. This was intensified by the increasingly relaxed look on Imoen's face. "And you merely felt like doing some late-night drilling?"

Reynald met his gaze calmly, nodding slowly. "Yes. You can never practice with the blade too much," he said, nudging the Blade of Searing slightly and keeping his voice and expression markedly calm and blank.

There was a brief noise from behind them, and they all glanced around quickly to see Jaheira pushing the door open, looking sleepy and a little befuddled. "Harrian? I… oh." She stopped as she saw them, pausing and giving them all a wry smile. "Is this some sort of gathering?"

"Coincidental," Imoen replied, shrugging. "And you seem to be joining us." She raised an eyebrow. "Where's Harrian?"

"That's what I was… checking." Jaheira drew her robe a little closer around herself and stepped towards the others. "I heard voices and assumed it was him." She glanced around. "He went to meet with Queen Ellesime earlier. And has not yet come back, I assume."

"He might have come back and gone on one of his walks," Anomen pointed out. "It is quite restful to meander out in the city."

"Mm. True. But it is not like him to spend so much time away," Jaheira agreed slowly, shrugging.

Reynald paused, seeming to be thinking for a long few moments. Then he abruptly turned and walked back into the drill room, disappearing for a few seconds until he emerged with a grim look on his face. "I'm not entirely sure how important this is…" he started falteringly, hesitant.

"But?" Jaheira prompted, fixing him with a look.

Reynald shifted a little. "His weapons are gone, as is his armour, and his pack, and all of his affairs."


	3. Chapter III: Ruling Passions

**Chapter III: Ruling Passions**

Anomen was not particularly surprised to note that the so-called 'soothing' trees and great architecture of Suldanessellar did little to keep Jaheira calm as the druid stormed out of the house the party had been given – as 'saviours of the city' – leaving the remaining three of them to hurry anxiously in her wake. Queen Ellesime was doubtless her destination, and they were all quite sure that questioning would not be a calm, polite or respectful affair.

Despite this, Reynald was still trying to reason with Jaheira as Imoen and Anomen, who knew better, hung back. "…You may be jumping to conclusions," the fallen paladin was saying as Anomen tuned back in.

"May I?" Jaheira challenged, trying to sound dismissive of Reynald's concerns but just coming out as angry. "Really, Reynald? At what part of this situation, where Harrian, after extensive talks with Ellesime, has taken his pack and disappeared into the night, am I leaping to conclusions?"

"She may know nothing. Harrian does many things for his own reasons," Imoen tried weakly and futilely. It was not that they disagreed with Jaheira, as such; more that they were probably in an explosive situation and she was waving a candle around.

"No. That woman knows exactly what's going on. And if I'd make any guesses, Harrian has gone south." Jaheira stopped to look at Anomen enquiringly. "And you, Anomen?" she asked, somewhat scathingly. "Do you too think that I am overreacting?"

Anomen paused, considering this. A vision of clouds of blood and a soil of bones entered his mind, and he shook his head. "No. There is something not right here. Ellesime should have more answers than us. If nothing else, she is linked to the wisdom of the Seldarine."

Imoen snorted lightly, though her expression was concerned when Anomen looked sharply at her. "Yes," she said falteringly, "but we've seen what she does with that wisdom and link." She didn't need to tell them that her thoughts were on Irenicus.

"Exactly," Jaheira agreed darkly. "Harrian has spoken to her the most, and though he assures me that her situation was complicated, I cannot trust a woman who would do that to the man she loved and call it justice. I cannot trust her. And at the very best I certainly cannot understand her."

Despite Anomen's concern, he felt bound to counter that point. "We are in a very different situation," he said slowly, not wanting to awake Jaheira's wrath. "One foolish mistake with Irenicus then has nothing to do with Harrian's whereabouts now." _Except for, of course, the fact that such a mistake led us all to this city_.

Reynald nodded slowly, grimacing as he stared at the wooden planks of the floor of the great walkway leading to the palace. "Quite." His voice was distant and sad, and it was a few seconds before he raised his head to look at them. "Love is not reserved only for the wise. I think that those with wisdom are probably above such a destructive emotion. But love is not our concern in this matter. I agree that Harrian is probably going south, but the role of Ellesime in this situation is surely only that of a wise advisor. Harrian is no fool."

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. "No fool, true. But certainly foolish. And more than capable of walking into trouble on his own. Or do you disagree with me on that, as well?" She gave them all a glare as they failed to respond.

At last, Anomen chuckled, despite the twisting concern in his stomach. "Jaheira, I would _never _argue with you about the potential depths of Harrian's foolishness. But he would not listen to Ellesime if she gave him advice that was folly, such as going south to the wars."

"And I think he would take us with him if he were going to war," Reynald said grimly.

The two guards standing by the great gateway before the palace recognised them immediately, and stepped out of their path. Although the walkway through the gates up to the palace doors was broad, Reynald and Anomen were both much larger than any of the elves in the city, and had a certain intimidation factor about them on top of the hero-worship.

"Her grace is… in the great hall…" one stammered as Jaheira fixed him with a look.

The druid paused to glance at Imoen, who shrugged and gave the guard another querying glance. "What's she doing up at this time?"

The other guard shifted more confidently, giving a deep nod. "Waiting for you, my lady. She has been waiting for some time now since the Lord Corias departed the city."

Jaheira groaned and pinched her nose, shaking her head with a slight anger. "That conniving, conspiring…"

The guard looked at her politely. "Yes?" he prompted her, his voice far too calm and light.

Anomen grabbed Jaheira by the shoulders and shepherded her through the gates. "It would not do to tell the Queen's guards that you think the queen is… whatever you were about to say, Jaheira," the cleric murmured diplomatically.

"I will still…"

"Save it for her ladyship," Reynald said coolly, though his eyes were twinkling when Imoen threw a glance at him. "And perhaps your wrath will get us the answers we need about Harrian."

"Though it might not hurt to keep some diplomacy in hand if it does not," Anomen murmured.

"And we do have the 'saviours of the city' and 'friends of all elves' cards to play if things go nasty," Imoen suggested.

"If she's really as wise as you're making me hope, she won't fold on that. I'm ready to thump her head against some walls until she gives me answers. There is _something _not right here," Jaheira murmured grimly, stalking up the steps to the palace doors, beyond which lay the great hall where Ellesime could supposedly be found. "And not just with Harrian gone. There's… more."

Again, a vision of the plains of death flashed across Anomen's eyes, and as he gave Imoen a concerned glance, the expression on her face suggested that she too was seeing rivers of blood again. A discreet look across at Reynald showed the fallen paladin was looking more grim than usual, still in his training gear but with the Blade of Searing sheathed on his belt. Something was _certainly _amiss.

"Ellesime!" Jaheira snapped, having marched forwards and shoved open the main doors before Anomen's attention had returned to her. "You're up in the middle of the night for a _reason_. The same reason I'm here, demanding answers!"

It was clear Ellesime had been expecting them, which was why she didn't run and cower at Jaheira's arrival, but it was testament to the druid's ferocity that the queen of Suldanessellar still looked slightly cowed behind her mask of elven arrogance.

"Or, perhaps," Reynald interjected, smoother and calmer, "you could do us the honour of answering some questions which _do _need answers. And it's quite clear that you are the key to all of this, as it stands." Despite his less ferocious tones than Jaheira, there was still a shot of steel running through his words, strong and sharp.

"I am assuming that this is to do with the whereabouts of the Lord Corias," Ellesime said at last, striding around the tree in the main entrance to approach the four of them. "I regret to tell you that I cannot tell you anything."

Anomen placed a calming hand on Jaheira's shoulder as Imoen folded her arms across her chest. "Why not?" she demanded, raising an eyebrow. "We need to know where he is. He just got up and left. And times are… dangerous." She flicked back a lock of pink hair dangling in her eyes, glaring slightly at the elven queen.

Ellesime shrugged slightly, looking honestly regretful. "It is not my place to tell you. He has not run off to any danger, and should be back in the morning. But he is on a quest which is his own, which is for himself. It is not a matter which encompasses all of you, nor is he hiding away from you in any effort to not include you in his fate." She straightened up. "These are matters which concern Harrian, and Harrian alone. It is up to him if you are to know, and it is not my place to tell you."

"What do you mean, they only concern Harrian?" Imoen frowned. "What concerns him, concerns us all. And if it concerns the Bhaalspawn, then _I'm _a Bhaalspawn, and I should be told!" Six months ago, that might have come out in a petty way, but Imoen's voice contained only a grim certainty.

"It concerns Harrian. As a Bhaalspawn. And as the Bhaalspawn he is. You may share his heritage, but you are not him, Imoen," Ellesime told her, not unkindly. "He has been needing guidance lately, as the war in the south brews. I have directed him to a place of guidance, where he shall take what wisdom he needs, and may then do with it as he wishes. This is of his destiny, and his life. Not yours."

Jaheira grimaced, already tired of staying quiet. "Just tell us where he is. We shall go there, just to make sure he's alright. If he doesn't want to talk… then fine." The druid made a face. "But it's not _safe _for one person, even as powerful as Harrian, to walk alone through the land, considering what's been happening to the Bhaalspawn lately!" she pointed out.

Ellesime considered this briefly, and it was clear that the idea of danger befalling her city's hero had not truly struck her. "I shall tell you where he is," she said at length, heavily. "But no more. His reasons and his quest are his own until he decides otherwise."

Jaheira smiled thinly. It was time to gear up, it seemed.


	4. Chapter IV: Sibling Love

**Chapter IV: Sibling Love**

"This," Harrian mumbled, picking himself up from the mud and spitting out a leaf, "was a bloody stupid idea."

It was dawn. And not the sort of magnificent dawn one would stay up all night for, the kind where the sun would rise like a phoenix from the ashes, shining down upon all of the world and giving you the warm and fuzzy feeling of new beginnings. Not the sort of dawn which would burn your eyes out if you watched it directly, and certainly not the sort of dawn that was romantic, if sunsets weren't your thing. No, it was the sort of dawn that creeps rather than explodes, hidden by clouds, and rain, and trees, and all Harrian really noticed about the sun's arrival was that it got lighter.

Though there wasn't much to see in this new illumination. All there was in this forsaken forest he'd been directed to by Ellesime was trees, and leaves, and mud. And since he'd just slipped and fallen flat on his face in said mud, he wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the whole matter. He left trees to Jaheira.

Harrian scrabbled at his cloak, trying to find a corner of cloth that wasn't dirtied so he could wipe his face. Abandoning personal hygiene for practicality when out in the wild was one thing, but looking as if he'd just been dragged through a hedge backwards didn't make him feel too good about himself. He was wet, cold, tired, and running about four hours behind the schedule he'd set himself. He'd had enough.

It was with a sinking feeling as he proceeded through the woodland that he realised he'd been a little optimistic on travel time. Ellesime had told him of this sacred grove, with the stones that would somehow help him to find wisdom, and had assured him that it was a trip he could make in one night if he left soon. Of course, Ellesime had been looking at it from an elf's point of view. Harrian didn't share the affinity with the wilderness that elves did… and anyone who knew him at all wouldn't allow him to navigate them anywhere even if he were the only person left who wasn't blind. He'd intended to be back at Suldanessellar by breakfast… before anyone even realised he was gone. Fat chance of that, now.

"Stupid elves," he mumbled, cursing as his cloak caught on a branch and ripped distinctly before he could tug it free, stumbling and almost falling again as he stepped away. "Stupid forest. Stupid stones. Stupid Ellesime. You could be in bed right now, Corias, warm and clean with a day of nothingness stretching towards you, but _no_, you thought it would be a good idea to go and find some answers."

His once gleaming Shadow Dragon armour was now dirtied and not gleaming at all. The Equaliser had a thin layer of mud coating it, and his new boots were definitely worn in. When he'd encountered the strange adventurers hours before, he'd looked the part of the hero they thought he was. Of course he did – he'd been walking down the road on his first journey since arriving at Suldanessellar, and in the last few months he'd maintained his equipment devotedly. All that hard work had gone to pot in a few seconds in the wilderness. He now looked like a completely normal traveller – even more bedraggled than that, in fact.

He would have considered this to be a good thing, if it weren't for the fact that there was nobody at all around him he would need to fool. Oh, and the glowing golden eyes still made him stand out. He won no benefits from looking normal, and since part of looking normal seemed to include squelching boots, he felt a bit gypped on this deal.

"There's nothing out here, is there?" he declared, more loudly this time, to the trees and anyone else in the vicinity. The only answer was the rustling of leaves and a few birds singing. "Stupid birds," Harrian mumbled, wringing some muddy water out of his sodden and ripped cloak. He'd _liked _that cloak. Now he'd need a new one.

Ellesime had promised him that there was a clearing out here. She'd _promised_. And there wasn't; he couldn't find it, the old bag had…

Harrian tripped again, this time quite spectacularly. His foot caught on a tree root, sending him flying through the air most impressively to land at the foot of another tree in a pile. He felt the tip of one of his throwing knives, snug in his bandolier, threatening to dig into a rib through leather and cloth, and he though he might have twisted his ankle on the landing. Typical. He could take all the slicing in the world from normal steel, had defeated dragons and evil mages, but could break his leg on a tree in this gods-forsaken forest with _no _grove in sight!

He winced as he gingerly touched his ankle, which fortunately had quite a lot of support from his well-made boots, and seeming to be only slightly injured. Something he could walk off. Then he looked up.

A giant stone face that was as high as he was tall was set in the ground in front of him, facing the sky, with features that were definitely elven but corrosion from the rain had worn away any particular details. It seemed that the grove was closer than he'd thought.

Harrian bit back a gasp of surprise and pain as he stood up and placed weight on his ankle, looking around frantically. He could see in the clearing he now realised he'd entered that there were other faces as well, all looking similar but distinctly individual.

Despite this, the sinking feeling in his stomach remained. What was he supposed to _do _here? He'd gone to Ellesime with fears and worries that she'd assuaged… the time of the Bhaalspawn prophecies were coming, and in the months since the saving of Suldanessellar, Harrian had come to respect the queen as someone who understood more than he did of what was going on.

But what was he supposed to get out of a load of stone faces? They had to be some elvish thing, but Harrian was certainly not on board with that sort of idea.

He stepped up to the nearest stone face dubiously, reaching out a gloved hand to gingerly touch the surface. He could feel its coolness even through the leather, the dampness from a past rain, and his ankle still throbbed with a slight pain. But there was nothing divine at work that he could sense; no energy humming through him, no –

The ground shook under his feet, and Harrian yanked his hand away from the stone, relying on the nearest tree to balance himself rather than the now-suspicious face. A rumbling filled his ears, at first sounding far-off then building up louder and louder even as the trembling of the ground increased, until all that he could hear was the thundering. At last the tremors of the ground made him lose his footing, and as he fell to the ground yet again into blackness, the rumbling slowly turned into a deep, gravely voice that reverberated within his head even as he lost consciousness.

"_The wheels of prophecy e'er turn,  
Gorion's ward hath come…"_

* *

_"…the storm approaches,  
We speak no more."_

Harrian sat up slowly, one hand pressed against his temple. He was in even more of a state than he'd been before. Blood was slowly trickling down the side of his face from a cut hidden somewhere in his hair, and as his Bhaaltaint had made him immune to normal injuries, he really didn't want to think for too long about that wound. He was also even more muddied than before, and looked hardly any different to how he had when he'd started his journeys so long ago, after Gorion's death when he had slept in a tree and Imoen had found him…

He'd also somehow moved. When he'd found the first stone, it had been somewhere in the outskirts of the large clearing which had the many faces set into it. Now, as he stood up, he was directly in the centre.

Harrian wiped some of the blood away from his face as he tried to remember the words that had echoed through his head, the words that had to have come from the stones. Something about five people… a servant of Bhaal… armies marching and cities burning…

Then a threat. A storm approaching. And although a quick glance at the sky confirmed the dark, threatening clouds, Harrian had the distinct feeling that this storm warning did not refer to the weather.

He drew his sword, swiping mud out of his eyes and scanning the woodland grimly. Though his dislike for the depths of nature was not something he tried to hide, Harrian had spent enough time in forests, most notably the Cloakwood, to sense an enemy's approach.

And then she came, calm and casual from in between the trees, clad in an elven chain that managed to shimmer even in the low light of the cloud-blocked sun. Alone, but gripping a bow and a gleaming sword, striding with a quiet confidence and predatory air, and never taking her eyes off his as she approached.

Harrian adjusted the grip on his sword.

"So… I have found you at last." The woman's voice was low, moderately smug, and Harrian recognised it instantly as the veil for a threat. "You cannot imagine how long I have been waiting for you to leave Suldanessellar. But I must commend you – I hardly noticed your departure until an hour after you fled the city."

Harrian's raised an eyebrow at her, shifting into an aggressive fighting stance. "I suppose I should feel pleased of myself because of that." He paused, and licked his dry lips. "Who are you?"

A smirk tugged briefly at her expression, and she let out a low chuckle. "Someone who has been hunting you for a long, long time, Harrian Corias. I am Illasera the Quick… and I am not someone for small talk."

Harrian rolled his eyes, apparently relaxing somewhat. "Great. More bounty hunters after Bhaalspawn. Alright, alright. How do you want to die?" He raised the sword, his stance still threatening despite the grimly amused look on his face.

Illasera returned the raised eyebrow, still smirking. "You would slay your own sister?" She shrugged. "Not that I haven't despatched my share of Bhaalspawn, but I thought you were one of the noble ones, Harrian." Despite his best efforts, a note of shock must have crossed his face, because she chuckled wryly before continuing. "Not all of us have been wandering Faerûn like lost cattle, as you and that pathetic Imoen have. No. Some of us have been growing strong, consolidating our powers, and rising to our potential."

Harrian nodded, quickly getting over her revelation. Although he had hardly encountered any other Bhaalspawn beyond Imoen and Sarevok, he had been preparing himself for months for the eventuality of meeting his siblings in battle. It seemed Illasera would be only the first of many. "So why do you need to hunt me? Why aren't you off building an army?" he sneered.

Illasera shrugged. "Not all we Bhaalspawn have the power to be generals. But that does not necessarily make us any less strong. Skills can be found… in all sorts of places." She drew herself up straight. "My allies have lain waste to cities and countries and brought together armies of thousands. But what do they have to show for it? A handful of dead Bhaalspawn caught by mistake. _I _have slain over a hundred Children! And Ascension will not be possible until every last one of them is gone!"

Harrian squared his shoulders. "You don't want to fight me," he warned, his voice hard. A month ago, he knew he'd have been happy to leap into a battle. He didn't know if it was Illasera's heritage or the fact that he felt quite vulnerable on his own, but the desire to talk her down was strong. "I have a few deadly kills under my own belt, Quick One. I'm not some weak farmer cursed with a taint. I _will _defeat you if you raise your blade against me."

Illasera sneered at him. "We shall see…"


	5. Chapter V: Darkness Falls

**Chapter V: Darkness Falls**

The sun, when it found a gap in the clouds as it rose in the sky, was indeed as bright and illuminating as it always promised to be, bringing life and warmth to all those who dwelt under its rays and offering hope of a new day.

But these promises and hopes were left disregarded by the two in the elven grove as steel crashed on steel and their feet danced to keep up the pace of the speedy fight. For it was clear to them both that speed meant life, and being the slower one would bring only death here.

Harrian found himself on the defensive, more by choice than necessity, as he kept his gaze fixed on Illasera's fighting, slowly evaluating her fighting technique. In the large battles, Harrian knew he was not the greatest of warriors – he would leave the bulk of the fighting to Reynald and Anomen and, formerly, Minsc – but when it came to a one-on-one fight, more of a duel, he was happy to claim a flawless technique.

That said, Illasera was no slouch. Months, possibly years of hunting Bhaalspawn had honed her abilities, and even though he matched her blow for blow, this didn't stop the fight from being a supremely fast-paced affair.

"You are weak," the bounty hunter sneered as their blades locked, both pressing against each other for supremacy. Harrian didn't answer, his teeth gritted with the effort of resisting her force, the Equaliser solid in his two-handed grip. "You're already struggling. Yield, and I'll make it quick."

"Nice deal," Harrian retorted, summoning an extra dreg of strength and shoving her blade away, before raising his own for an overhead swing that she only just blocked. "How many people take you up on those offers?"

Steel crashed on steel again as the fighting resumed its earlier speed, this time with Harrian on the offensive, very much with the upper hand. It was his first fight beyond drilling with Reynald in months, but he could feel the adrenaline running through him familiarly, filling him with urgency, speed, and strength, or so it felt. The Equaliser crashed down upon Illasera's own enchanted sword, and the light shining down upon the metal with every twist and shift made the blade almost seem alive in his hands.

Illasera ineffectively blocked the next blow, a sideways chop at shoulder-level, and the impact made her sword rattle in her grip, no longer solid and secure. Harrian took advantage of this to lock blades and twist the Equaliser in an attempt to disarm her, one of the first tricks of a sword he'd ever learnt. Illasera's sword went flying through the air, somehow managing to embed itself in a nearby tree, and the bounty hunter stepped back before stumbling to the ground, landing sprawling on her back.

Harrian stepped up, the Equaliser unwavering in his hand as he pointed the blade at her neck. "Yield," he hissed, the blood pounding in his head with effort and the euphoria at victory, and it was all he could do to keep himself calm enough so as to not instinctively swing and finish the battle.

Despite how clearly beaten she was, Illasera let out a short bark of laughter. "The fight's not over, is it, Corias. You've taken me down, and now you're battling with yourself. Your sword's itching to finish me off," she chuckled, fixing him with a green-eyed gaze.

"Who are your allies? Where are they?" Harrian pressed, ignoring her comments.

"Feel the singing in your head? The rising of your heart, the adrenaline still pumping more and more through your body?" Illasera laughed once more as Harrian's breathing began to deepen and slow in a clear effort for him to calm himself. "That's your blood. It's calling to you. You've felt it before, but never like this. It's what happens when you have another of the Children before your blade."

"Actually," Harrian said quietly, trying to keep his voice cold and level but not entirely succeeding, "I have felt this before."

"Ah yes. Sarevok. And you slew him."

"He wasn't at my mercy. I'm not going to cut you down when you're defenceless," Harrian hissed, despite his words digging the tip of his sword in the soft bottom of her jaw.

"What will you do? Let me go freely? I'll just be back, and with more men, then I'll kill you and all the rest. If I live, I live to fight another day. And without you, Corias, the world will turn to blood, and everything that you have loved and battled for will fade," Illasera told him, shifting away from his sword.

Harrian pulled the Equaliser back, then strode over to the tree Illasera's sword was embedded in. He grabbed the hilt and gave it a hard tug to pull it out, then tossed it over to the bounty hunter. "Pick it up," he instructed.

Illasera looked at him, confusion clear on his face. "I don't –"

"Take it, Quick One. Unless you think you're not quick enough to win again," Harrian instructed. "And if you don't pick it up, Gods, I _will _strike." He raised the Equaliser in a fighting pose, legs apart slightly for balance, his weight resting on the balls of his feet.

"They were right. You _are _a fool," Illasera said, swinging her own sword experimentally before she hefted it and took a step towards Harrian aggressively. Her blade was in a two-handed grip, raised overhead as she swung it in a blow aimed to crash down upon his skull. He hardly reacted, hardly moved in the face of this new threat, and Illasera didn't even see his retaliation… but the blade running through her gut and coming out the other side was impossible to miss.

Her sword fell from her hands as the strength ebbed out of them, and she raised her head to stare at Harrian disbelievingly. "That was…"

"A kill. You seem to like them, Quick One. Now it's my turn," Harrian told her grimly, his expression unwavering.

"I didn't think you'd do _that_." Illasera chuckled again, despite the sword in her gut, and a small line of blood trickled out the edge of her mouth. "You're just like us, still, aren't you. Right now, you're… dressing it up…" Then more of her strength left her, and she took a step back, off his blade, before collapsing on the floor. Harrian watched her emotionlessly. "A time will come, Corias," Illasera whispered, her gaze still fixed on him as blood welled up from her wound, "when you don't try to hide what you are."

Then she laid her head back, closed her eyes… and before Harrian's pitiless gaze, the flesh on her body slowly turned to dust, bones and organs fading, until all that was left was a pile of ash inside a damaged suit of elven chain.

Harrian stared at it for a long few moments, his gaze flickering down to the Equaliser, which was now covered in blood. The blood of a Bhaalspawn, of one of his siblings. It wasn't the first time his blade had been covered in that, though before it had been Varscona, the sword he had loved so well and had cut Sarevok down so well.

He took a deep, shuddering breath as the pounding and voices in his ears faded. It had been, he knew, a half-hearted resistance of the urge, the _need _to kill Illasera. He hadn't cut her down as she lay defenceless at his feet. He had sliced through her by giving her the pretext of another fair fight, and had slain her before she even knew what was happening.

Harrian knelt down before her remains, one hand resting on the elven chain for a long moment, his brow furrowed with thought. Then, as if to pretend that he hadn't been suddenly haunted by her actions, he searched the equipment for any gear he could possibly use. Boots of Speed were taken and shoved in his pack, a few more magical throwing knives added to his bandolier. The enchanted dagger he left, even though the dagger in his boot was made of normal steel.

"How many did _you _kill, Illasera the Quick?" he murmured, gingerly touching the ashes that were her remains. "You hunted down the Children, and slew them. Why? For how long?" Harrian raised his head to see the sun shining down on him, and blinked back the tears which were threatening to form, though he didn't know why.

Then he felt it – a shadow at the back of his mind, a creeping darkness which was familiar and yet different, surging from within him, rising upwards… and then, before he could think about it, identify it, control it, stop it… it was there, suddenly overtaking him.

Blackness was all there was, and by the time his brain kicked in and he realised that he was no longer in the elven grove, he briefly wondered if he was dead. But how? Nothing had struck him. There was no wound, no pain. Nothing to actually kill him. _He'd _beaten _her_. If anything else, _she _should be dead.

"I greet you, god-child, you who are of divine blood. I have awaited you."

The voice was strange, almost sounding like two voices – a deep and a higher-pitched one, of no discernible gender. Harrian was still surrounded by darkness, and he could neither see the speaker nor establish their position from their voice.

"What… where am I? Who are you?" he called out to the darkness, his voice trembling as he tried to look around wildly, and still saw nothing. He raised his hand in front of his face – or, at least, _thought _he did that – but there was still nothing to see.

"I have existed since the first strand of fate was woven, a servant of the paths and the gods. I have watched your own path most carefully," the voice answered.

Harrian chuckled as surely as he dared. "You and a couple of hundred other buggers out there. Everyone seems to have a vested interest in my destiny. What makes you different? Other than the fact that you're the only person in this pitch-black place," he retorted scathingly.

"Our own servant, who was the mortal Alaundo, spake the truths that became prophecy. It tells of your coming and of all the others who are the progeny of Bhaal," the voice continued, ignoring him now. "The spark of the divine rests within all of Bhaal's children and the time for their joining is nigh. I am here to aid you, god-child."

"Aid me? Why me, in particular, if there are all of these other Bhaal children?" Harrian challenged, raising an eyebrow the speaker surely wouldn't be able to hear. "And do you mean actually aid me, or is that just a euphemism for 'try to kill me'? What will you do?"

"I cannot interfere. I can only prepare you, god-child… aid in your education, you who are most unready to assume your destiny."

A chill ran down Harrian's spine. "My destiny is my _own_. No dead god rules it. And I won't be assuming any destiny some bunch of blasted bloody immortals decide ought to be mine."

"I only meant that you are unready for the possibilities that await you," the voice reassured him. "Your mortal mind does not readily comprehend the power in your blood. You must be ready. It is your presence which determines the outcome of the prophecy, although even I cannot see it yet. When the time comes, you will be ready… I will make certain."

"What, here, is your particular definition of 'ready'? What do you know of my power?" Harrian asked dubiously.

"Power comes with knowledge, god-child. It shall come to you in time, as your destiny unfolds." The voice paused, and suddenly light started to creep through the blackness, a few indistinct shapes coming into view. "I shall see you soon. Until then, hold your heart close, and know that you are not alone…"

But by then, the voice had faded away, and Harrian wasn't paying it any more attention as his vision flooded back, giving him a huge view of a sight he hadn't wanted to see – and a person he hadn't expected to see.

"So," Sarevok boomed, even though his body was indistinctive and incorporeal. "You have finally arrived. I have been waiting for you."

Harrian, lying sprawled on the floor in the giant cavern that was familiar and yet not, could only stare at him and gape.


	6. Chapter VI: Shadows of the Past

**Chapter VI: Shadows of the Past**

Harrian picked himself up off the floor. "This I just an illusion. A torturous nightmare. The Gods are having their joke." He brushed himself down, eyeing the large, fiendish cavern which was almost circular, with five passageways at different points around it, each blocked off by a crackling field of magical energy. Before him, guarded by two stone statues, was a final deep, dark doorway. And in that doorway, a shadow of the past stood and stared at him.

"You're dead, Sarevok," Harrian continued, surprised by how calm he felt as his golden eyes met his half-brother's incorporeal ones. "Twice over. At _least_."

"Then you should not be surprise that I have returned again. The truly powerful do not stay defeated for long." Sarevok was without a helmet for once, and Harrian realised with a jolt that this was the first time he had seen the other Bhaalspawn's face. In battle, whenever they had met, Sarevok's head had always been encased in metal, hidden from the world and from Harrian's eyes, and all he'd seen on that fateful night in the rain, the night of Gorion's death, had been the two glowing, golden orbs hidden behind the helm's visor.

That had been all he'd had to go by for the following weeks. Harrian had no memory for dreams, but he had plenty of imagination for daydreams and fantasies, and the hulk of Sarevok had haunted him during his waking hours, always armoured and hidden. Thus his mind had jumped to conclusions about Sarevok's appearance under the armour. He had imagined, to fill in the gaps of his knowledge, a monster, of horrendous visage and foul look. Though as he considered this now, a year on, he realised how foolish that assumption had been.

Except for the fact that Harrian could see through him, Sarevok looked as logic dictated he should – like a man. A powerfully-built man, granted, broad of shoulder and half a foot taller than the swashbuckler, but a man nevertheless. His skin was swarthy, his face well-chiselled, still with the glowing eyes set into it, and Harrian realised – still with surprise – that there were many women who would consider his brother even handsome.

Then the booming voice spoke again, and Harrian was jolted out of his reverie. He had only known the voice to issue threats, battle-cries, and death screams, so it felt infinitely strange to be having a conversation with it. "If you are _quite _done with your examination, perhaps you would care to actually discuss the situation?" Sarevok asked sourly, but with all the tones of a well-educated and quite sane man.

Harrian grimaced. "Why are you here?" he asked at last, taking a deep breath to try and solidify his brain, which rather felt as if it had turned to mush. "And, for that matter, where _is _'here'? Where are we? It's not Hell again, is it?" he added after a moment's thought and realised this was something he had best check.

Sarevok blinked at him. "You do not _know_?" He laughed briefly, sounding both amused and bitter. "What an irony! You continue to live, even as you stumble around, waving you arms to find purchase and direction, while I, Sarevok, stand broken and beaten – at _your _hands! You are the most powerful of all the Bhaalspawn and yet you are blind, while I, who was ready to be a _god_… cannot even _touch _you!" To emphasise the point, Sarevok stepped forward, swinging a fist almost lethargically at Harrian. The thief instinctively raised his arm to block it, and although he was quick enough, it served no purpose, for Sarevok's hand passed through it… and then even through Harrian's skull, not making any impact at all.

Harrian swore and stepped back, his face as white as Sarevok's ghostly visage. "Point made, and well," he conceded after a few seconds. "But that doesn't answer my question. Though it does freak me out suitably that I'll probably believe anything you tell me."

Sarevok sighed loudly, rolling his eyes. "This is our father's realm, whelp, brought back into being – or knowledge – by your growing power. I was summoned only as you were, though to what end I know not."

Harrian raised an eyebrow at this. "Maybe to help me, this time," he ventured. "Fighting you doesn't seem to get me anywhere." He was clutching at straws, he knew, but Sarevok couldn't hurt him, as he'd proven, and he needed all the allies and assistance he could get right then.

"At last you recognise this." Sarevok straightened up, seeming even slightly proud as he did so. "Though had I form and strength again, you, standing alone, could not defeat me again. Not with flesh on my bones and a blade in my hands. However I suppose I must serve some different purpose, this time."

"I'm more powerful than I was when we fought under Baldur's Gate, and you've been nothing but a shadow since then. Don't underestimate me, even if I don't have a party at my back this time," Harrian said. "But can you help me, or are you nothing more than a bit of cabaret as I figure out what to do in this place?"

Sarevok bristled. "I can help you," he said coolly. "To show you my good faith, I shall tell you how to summon your companions. But there is much more I know, can do, can tell you. For anything more – and you _will _need more – I will want something in return. Only a fool gives something for nothing."

"What?" Harrian asked guardedly, his hand, despite himself, going down to his sword hilt.

Sarevok snorted at the gesture, then smiled secretively. "These statues, there, can summon those bound to your fate here." He gestured to the guards of the shadowed doorway. "Call them, and they shall come. Hold your council, panic over your situation, hunt for ways out of here – I know you will do all of that – and then you will come to me for my help and for my deal."

"Those bound to my fate? You mean my friends? The others?" Harrian stepped over to the statues, his mouth hanging open lightly as he stared at them. "How can they do that? I mean, they're just statues."

"You think of everything in such limited and literal terms, brother. Here, stone is not just stone, and a statue is not just for decoration. Those who are tied to your destiny can be brought to this place, for it is recognised that you cannot necessarily do all you need to alone…" Sarevok paused, looking pensive. "And it is also recognised that _their _fates are almost certainly tied to you."

"I don't know if that's encouraging or not." Harrian frowned, then looked over at his brother, who nodded slowly before disappearing into the gloom. He glanced back at the statue, and reached out his gloved hand to rest it against the stone. "Bring me Jaheira, Defender of Nature. Bring me Imoen Corias, Child of Bhaal. Bring me Anomen Delryn, Servant of the Watcher. Bring me Reynald de Chatillon, Fallen Paladin of Torm."

"…I think that it is _quite _clear that we are heading off into an _unknown_. The Queen was fairly specific in saying that Harrian had planned to be back by this time, so if something has gone wrong, we should _not _charge blindly into it!" Anomen was ranting at Jaheira as he and the others popped suddenly into existence in the centre of the cavern.

Reynald raised his head, one hand gripping the hilt of the Warblade strapped across his back. The Fallen Paladin's quick gaze evaluated their surroundings with an air of mild anxiety, before his eyes met Harrian's. A slight smile tugged at his lips. "My friends?"

"He has been delayed. That means something has happened to him. So I am _not _going to waste _any _more time than is _absolutely _necessary before we depart! It has been hours since he left, and we have spent hours getting ready!" Jaheira snapped back, clearly oblivious to the sudden change in environment, ignoring Reynald.

"Ah, we are…" Again, the Fallen Paladin's words fell on deaf ears.

"I doubt anything's happened to him," a similarly clueless Imoen mumbled, clearly stuck in the middle of playing peacemaker between the bickering druid and cleric. "You know what Harrian's like. He can't navigate with a _map_, so expecting him to follow Ellesime's directions is…"

"Friends?"

"Ahem." Harrian cleared his throat, having more success than Reynald in attracting their attention. "Something _did _happen to me, you'd be correct. And, as a matter of fact, I managed to find my way pretty well, even if I'm running a bit behind schedule as I was planning on having breakfast in Suldanessellar by now. But I think time plans are the least of our worries at this moment."

A long silence fell on them all as they stared around the great cavern, Anomen being the first to find his voice. "Harrian… what is this place?"

"Why… why are you here?" Imoen asked, a slight frown crossing her face.

"How did you summon _us _here?" Reynald pressed.

"Where in the _hells _have you been?" Jaheira snapped, surprise giving way rapidly to anger as she strode towards him, one hand clenched in a fist. Fortunately, she just poked him in the chest rather than punching him, her face contorted with fury and frustration. "You think you can just sneak away in the middle of the night without telling us and expect us not to be _worried_? Expect me not to be angry? You are –"

Harrian's hand reached out to grip her wrist, and his expression wasn't totally apologetic. "I slipped away. That is for sure. But matters… merely complicated the situation," he said, cutting off her rant. "You see, I didn't tell you all, because I knew that you would insist on coming with me."

"To this grove," Anomen said slowly. "Did you find the grove? Is that what took you to this place?"

"And what gave you the crazy idea that we might insist on coming along with you to make sure you didn't get into trouble like this," Imoen said blandly, her face registering a certain amount of betrayal which hit him more, if possible, than Jaheira's anger. Jaheira's anger had been _expected_. This seemed to be… more.

"I found the grove," Harrian said at last. "And I got given some guidance. I also met another Bhaalspawn… who tried to kill me. Needless to say, she failed, and her essence is now swirling around somewhere in the Abyss. Then I was dragged here."

"Where is 'here'?" Reynald asked dubiously, his eyes scanning the great statues and sculptures of the cavern. "Why did you not bring us with you to face foes and this… pit of darkness and evil?"

"Because I didn't _know _I'd be facing foes or this pit of darkness and evil," Harrian said heavily. "Ellesime just told me that the grove would give me enlightenment as to the predicament… with the Bhaalspawn wars and everything happening south. Or, south of Suldanessellar. I don't know where south is in relation to here." He sighed. "And yes, I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to come along."

Jaheira made a noise of frustration. "We have proven time and time again that we can hold our own against whatever monsters your heritage throws –"

"It wasn't about _that_!" Harrian snapped, frustrated. "I have my soul back now; I don't suffer from odd, misguided emotions throwing me all over the place. Well, not as many," he conceded. "It wasn't about _you_. It was about _me._" His expression tightened. "Believe it or not, there are some things in what is happening here that concern me, and me alone."

A long silence fell.

"What about me?" Imoen said quietly at length. "Don't I count? Don't the Bhaalspawn wars affect me?"

"The prophecies aren't _about _you, Immy," Harrian said at length, a pained expression on his face.

"What makes you so sure?"

"You're not…" Harrian's voice trailed off as he regarded her sombrely. _You're not powerful enough_, he thought, was on the tip of his tongue to say. He shook his head a little. "You're not dark enough. You're not involved enough."

Imoen glanced down, as Jaheira took a step away from him. "Did you find the enlightenment you wanted?" the druid asked quietly, distantly.

"I got a load of riddles, the blood of another Bhaalspawn on my hands, and I ended up here." Harrian sighed. "My little solo escapade wasn't about action. It wasn't meant to be an adventure I was embarking on to which you weren't privy. It was meant to be about knowledge. That's over now, and the action's starting up again, and I _need _you all." He opened his hands and held them out to the others. "I'm not pushing you away."

Again, the long silence fell.

Anomen scratched at his beard with a gauntleted hand. "There is much about your fate I am ignorant to… much about your heritage that is beyond me. But I serve Helm first… and you second. And I serve both best by your side. It is my duty as a friend, and as a Watcher."

"I have been given the deepest feeling that I shall be left in the dark much during these times," Reynald said quietly. "But, regardless, my sword is yours. My ears and my thoughts are yours too, if you wish them, but when you are keeping the quests of knowledge to yourself, I shall still be here for the quests of action."

Jaheira had a stricken look on her face. The anger was gone, the defeat was gone, any resentment was gone… all Harrian could see left on her face was a tension, and a fear. "I am with you," she said simply, reaching out to grip his outstretched hand lightly.

Harrian smiled, a much needed warmth settling in his belly, even as concern for her battled in. He then, slowly, glanced over at his sister. "Imoen?"

The pink-haired mage nodded slowly. "I may not be a Bhaalspawn who's prophesised about," she said quietly, distantly, as she stepped up beside Anomen. "But these wars affect me just as much as they affect you." There was a pause, until a light smile tugged at her lips. "Besides, I can't just let you hop off on your own. You just get into trouble."

Harrian's smile broadened, then he glanced around. "Right," he said at last. "Now we just need to find Sarevok…"


	7. Chapter VII: Sacrifices

**Chapter VII: Sacrifices**

"Perhaps, now that all of this unnecessary drivel of an explanation is over, we could get back to business," Sarevok said slowly, dryly, emerging from the shadows so close to Reynald that the fallen paladin almost jumped with surprise, his hand going back up to grip the hilt of the Warblade slung over his back.

"You!" Jaheira snarled, leaping away from Harrian, her hand also going to her sword hilt. "I thought we had defeated you for the last time! Is it not enough that we destroyed you under Baldur's Gate and in Hell? Must you return _again _to plague us?"

"Apparently, yes." Sarevok shrugged, the plates of his armour resisting to the movement a little. "I know not entirely why I am here, other than that I was _meant _to be here. I have a purpose to serve in Harrian's fate, just as much as all of you do, and I am as clueless as to the conclusion of his destiny as anyone else."

"Except for, apparently, mysterious celestial beings. I have a guide somewhere, but I don't know what… it is," Harrian explained weakly, remembering the voice in the dark. "But yes, Sarevok's back… he told me how I could summon you here."

"What _is _this… here?" Anomen asked testily. "Why is this evil abomination walking amongst us? Shall we not destroy him again?"

"Fool. I'm incorporeal. Even if you _could _best me in combat, which is a laughable idea, your flail would just go straight through me," Sarevok sneered, pointing at the Flail of Ages. "As for this 'here'… it is the realm of our father." He nodded at Harrian and at Imoen. "Faded to nothing upon his death, returned into being upon the rise of power of the Bhaalspawn."

"So there are others who have used this place? Like Illasera?" Harrian asked, hands on his hips.

Sarevok shrugged again. "I do not know. I have not met them, that is for certain. Perhaps I only came to you because I am linked to your destiny. Perhaps I am an intrinsic part of Bhaal's realm and you alone have the power to bring this place back into being. I do not know."

"I thought you said you had information for me?" Harrian asked testily.

"Information?" Anomen asked, aghast. "You would trust anything that this… this horror, this creature of evil has to say to you?"

Imoen looked up at Sarevok, her eyes shining with a slight fear, but she gently placed a hand on Anomen's forearm. "Relax, Anomen," she told the cleric quietly. "I think we can trust him. What is it you have to say?"

Sarevok shook his head. "Knowledge is not free."

"What is it that you want, creature of darkness?" Jaheira asked, her hand clenching into a fist. "Say it quickly, and do not try my patience, for there is only so much of you that I will be suffering…"

"I want existence. I want to live again."

They all stared at the giant form of the incorporeal Sarevok, eyes wide. At last, Reynald scratched at his whiskers. "Is that even entirely possible?" he asked slowly. "I mean… you are dead. You are a ghost. There is no way for you to return to being."

"That shows how much you know, dark knight," Sarevok sneered. He turned to Harrian and Imoen. "You two may understand. A portion of your essence, in this place, will be enough to return me to being. I wish to _live _again."

"Just a portion of our essences?" Imoen asked dubiously.

Sarevok raised an eyebrow. "Although the idea of some of your sickly sweet essence giving me life does not fill me with joy, yes. I just need it from one. I suppose your indomitable leader will be volunteering, however." He smiled at Harrian in a predatory way.

"Tell me the information, and I shall consider it," Harrian said at length, folding his arms across his chest.

"_No_," Sarevok thundered, drawing himself up to his full, if admittedly incorporeal, height. "I am no fool. You would abandon me here once you had the knowledge. I will live, and I shall tell you." His expression twitched slightly. "There is, of course, nothing but my sword to stop you from killing me once I have returned. But… you shall not do that."

Jaheira rested a hand on Harrian's shoulder. "Harrian… do not trust him. There must be another way, some other means of finding what we need to know," she said quietly, her cold grey eyes locked on Sarevok.

"Indeed. Those tainted by evil do not turn to the light. He is nothing more than a creature of darkness, and should not be trusted. He cannot deny what he is," Anomen said coldly, shaking off Imoen's touch and folding his arms across his chest.

Reynald gave Anomen a brief, sideways look, the fallen paladin's expression hard to read. Then he glanced back at Imoen and Harrian. "It is your choice. If you feel you can trust him… then I would do it." He eyed Sarevok slowly. "I assume that death can change a man."

"I would have no desire to waste away any second chances, dark knight," Sarevok said with a slow nod. "You understand that." There was a moment of cold tension between the two, until Reynald's gaze fell away.

Harrian nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll –"

"No."

He looked over at Imoen, blinking with surprise. "Immy, we need all of this –"

"I know we need his help. But you're not giving up a part of your soul." Imoen stepped forwards, ignoring Anomen's slight sound of surprise. "I am."

"So, the little sister steps forward at last. I shall thank you from the bottom of my –"

"It's not _for _you," Imoen snapped darkly, cutting Sarevok off. "My decision is not about _you_. It's about Harrian." She looked at her brother. "You risked death and torture to bring me back my soul. You defied everything to bring me back from Spellhold. I owe you _everything_, Harrian." Imoen stepped forward to grip the thief's hand. "I would die for you. I would give up the soul you saved for me. And so I shall risk myself… for you. Because we need what Sarevok has to give."

Harrian stared at her blankly. "Imoen, I can't _let _you…"

"Let me?" She gave a short bark of cold laughter. "There's no 'letting' anymore, Harrian. I'm not the little girl running away from Candlekeep to come and adventure with you. I'm more than that. I'm an archmage in my own right. I nearly destroyed Irenicus, remember?" Her voice dropped, and a wry smile tugged at her lips. "I fared a touch better than you, if you recall."

Harrian looked away, his gaze meeting Sarevok's for a moment, before he sighed and looked his sister in the eye. "If you're sure, then, Imoen. It's your choice."

"You need every bit of your soul you can get," Imoen said wryly, winking at him, before she turned to face Sarevok. "Alright, big bro," the pink-haired mage said, forcing a smirk. "I'm ready. De-soul me, will you?"

"I shall be eternally grateful, sister," Sarevok said solemnly, reaching out with his incorporeal hand to, suddenly, grip Imoen's wrist. There was a long silence as she closed her eyes, a slightly strangled sound escaping her lips, before Sarevok screamed loudly, wrenching away and falling to his knees. Imoen similarly staggered, and fell to the ground.

As Anomen dashed to her side hurriedly, Sarevok stood up again suddenly, hands outstretched, face turned upwards. As he screamed again, a shimmering light enveloped him, shining, so bright that he disappeared for a moment…

And then he returned, solid, strong, whole again, as the light dissipated.

Sarevok Anchev stared at his hands, sinewy and strong, turning them over with an expression of wonder on his face. He patted at his armour, at his cheeks, at his domed head, and then let out a loud bark of laughter. "I live! Flesh and blood and bone! I am _alive_!" He laughed again, throwing back his head.

"I'm… Anomen, get off me, I'm alright," Imoen said falteringly, pulling away from the cleric's concerned hovering and standing up on her own. "I… it just…" She paused to stare at Sarevok. "Wow…"

"Indeed." Sarevok smiled, his pearly-white teeth flashing. "Impressive, no? I had been uncertain that it would work so well, but, as you can see… I am quite real!" He turned to Harrian. "Witness the power of this place. You see what it can do?"

Anomen was staring at him, a look of horror on his face. "You were… unsure?" A sneer tugged at his lips. "You were willing to risk her life on an _uncertainty_… and you did not _warn _her?" He took a threatening step forward, gauntleted hand clenching into a fist.

Sarevok chuckled wryly, also stepping forward to meet the cleric. "There is no gain without a gamble, priest. I had suspected it would work, in this place. It was an acceptable risk." He shrugged, the plates of his armour creaking this time. "Besides… it worked."

"Yes, but _you _would have lost _nothing_, whilst –"

Imoen rested a hand on his arm, pulling him back. "Ano… stop… it worked… I'm okay." Despite her words, she looked particularly drained as she looked up at Sarevok. "What is the great knowledge we're to get in exchange for this little deal?"

Sarevok nodded slowly, turning to a faintly pale Harrian. "Destiny awaits, brother. The armies are marching, and now your heritage is coming into its own, starting to guide you rather than be your tool."

Harrian smirked humourlessly. "It's never been my tool."

"Ah. Yes. That was the difference between us." Sarevok paused. "No matter. But now, your heritage is manifesting itself more, exerting its influence more. As you can see, it brought you here. And now your destiny is reaching a running pace, hurtling forward to direct you." He gestured to the gateway beyond the two summoning statues. "This door can take you to where you need to go."

"Such as back to Suldanessellar?" Jaheira asked, hands on hips.

Sarevok gave her a look. "I said where you _need _to go, not where you _want _to go. Where you need to go now is the city of Saradush, in Tethyr. It is currently under siege by one of the greater Bhaalspawn and his army. You shall find your way then."

Harrian sighed. "Fine. Let's go."

Sarevok held up a hand. "No. First… there is a test you must take. You cannot find your destiny without first exploring your heritage. And that is, I think, what this place is for."

"You think?" Reynald echoed.

"I cannot be sure. But these doorways… here…" He gestured to the five entrances around the cavern, each with a crackling field of magical energy blocking the way. "They lead to the tests. Complete them, and you shall find all you need of your heritage." As he gestured, the nearest one, just to the left of the dark gateway, had the way cleared as the energy field dissipated with a _crack_.

"What sort of tests?" Harrian asked dubiously, gripping his sword hilt.

"Tests of body, tests of mind… tests of sword, tests of inner strength… we shall see."

Anomen raised an eyebrow guardedly. "'We'?" he asked dubiously.

Sarevok turned to Harrian, his expression at last turning pleading. "I have one thing to ask of you, brother… one more thing. Take me with you." At Harrian's astonished look, he pressed on. "I know more about the prophecies of Alaundo than anybody else. I spent much time studying them when I thought they revolved around myself. I know they do not, now… but I am a tool for your use… and I wish to see how destiny unfolds."

"Do not take him with us, Harrian," Jaheira said slowly, her expression dark and guarded.

"He shall slip a knife in between our ribs the moment we turn our backs," Anomen agreed moodily.

"You do not believe in redemption?" Sarevok sneered at them, facing them each in turn and finishing with Reynald. "You take a dark knight, abandoned by his god with you… and he did not even succumb to the taint of Bhaal! He has fallen without even hearing the voice in his head… offering power, demanding blood." He looked at Harrian, who had a distant expression on his face. "You understand."

"I have not fallen to the sway of my blood as you have," Harrian said quietly.

"I am no longer a Child of Bhaal. My essence disappeared upon my death; I am a normal mortal now. I have no aspirations of godhood, and no silent tugging of murder at the back of my mind." Sarevok straightened up. "I will swear an oath, if you wish, to serve and not betray you. Such an oath would have power in this place… acting like a geas, of sorts."

"_No_." Anomen's face was deathly pale as he took a step forward. "I do not trust this monster, and I do not wish him to accompany us… but if you want him to join us, do _not _bind him to such an oath. I shall not stand for _that_."

"You would stand for my presence, though, cleric?" Sarevok asked with a sneer.

"I shall tolerate it, if you are of use. I shall not trust you… but I shall not see you swearing such an oath," Anomen said stoically.

Harrian nodded. "I agree, Anomen. Don't worry." He raised a hand to Sarevok, ignoring Jaheira's mutterings behind him. "Very well, Sarevok. I do not require an oath. But I may require your services, your knowledge… and your sword arm." A slight smile tugged at his lips. "You _do_ remember how to use a sword, right?"


	8. Chapter VIII: Black Blade

**Chapter VIII: Black Blade**

"I believe that this is yours."

Sarevok looked up from the intensive task of polishing the suit of armour Harrian had equipped him with – the shining emerald of the Gorgon Plate – to see Reynald de Chatillon approaching him from the other end of the camp the group had set up, a blade in his hand stretched out in offering.

Hardly looking, the big man snorted and lowered his head again, focusing on the metal in front of him. "You believed wrong, then, dark knight. I have no belongings any more, save what your leader has offered me." He gestured to the Warblade by his side, and continued with his work on the Gorgon Plate pointedly. "And even those are not my own. Nothing came with me to death, and so nothing came back to me in life."

"Something has found you, nevertheless," Reynald told him, laying the Sword of Chaos on the ground next to him. "Over many miles, being wielded by several warriors, passing through various layers of the Abyss, and despatching numerous foes… but this is your sword, most certainly."

Sarevok came to a halt in his polishing, slowly pushing the Gorgon Plate away as his golden eyes flickered over to his old sword in contemplation. "It has been some time since I have seen that blade," he rumbled quietly, a hand reaching out to touch the hilt gingerly. "So my brother took it with him." Sarevok raised an eyebrow. "He is no warrior. He would have no use for such a weapon."

"He is more of a warrior than he must have been when fighting you," Reynald pointed out quietly, sitting down cross-legged on the ground in front of Sarevok. "However, no, a greatsword is not his weapon of choice. Minsc carried that blade for a time. And then I did, when facing Irenicus. Though I did drop it off a tree."

Sarevok's raised eyebrow turned in Reynald's direction, but he didn't question the Fallen Paladin. Something within him was demanding that he shout abuse at the pitiful former knight, curse him and get him to leave, now. Unfortunately, he had the sinking feeling that Reynald might just shrug at any insults. Perhaps it would be best to save any baiting for the Watcher.

"This is not as powerful a blade as the greatsword Harrian offered me," Sarevok said at last, his hand moving back to the Warblade.

"Indeed." Reynald shrugged. "It is why, once Minsc had fallen, I took that weapon up instead. I do not return it to you from a perspective of solely using… more that you have a right to it above that of anyone else here."

Sarevok shook his head. "It is just a sword. If I have use for it, I may claim it. But there is no need for anything to be labelled as my own when it is as much use as scrap metal." He gave the Sword of Chaos a derisive glance. "Much of its strength came from my power as a Bhaalspawn. That power is gone. It is now useless. I am not the warrior who once bore it."

"Reminders of a dark past can sometimes be quite jarring," Reynald agreed, nodding slowly.

Sarevok threw him a quick, harsh look. But instead of retorting sharply, he decided to merely change the subject. It might get the conversation over with quicker. "Why do you not want the Warblade? If you carried it before and have no use for either greatsword the party carries with it?"

"I have changed in fighting styles," Reynald said, standing and drawing the Blade of Searing. "In the fight against Irenicus, I lost my blade – well, your blade – in the midst of combat, a most dangerous situation. All I had against a ridiculous horde of gnolls was an unenchanted short sword. I was ineffective in battling, and almost failed to return to the fight after being knocked over, due to being weighed down by my blasted plate mail." He made a face, and whirled the bastard sword around in a quick move. "In the months since, I have honed my fighting style to what it was before joining the ranks of the Order. Speed, skill, precision, all merely helped by strength. But when standing shoulder to shoulder with many other knights against marauding Orcs, brute force seemed to be the necessary technique." Reynald shrugged. "I am not the knight in shining armour any more. Perhaps it is best to focus more on killing things effectively, than looking the part as I do it."

Sarevok's eyes travelled down to observe the glistening shine of the Red Dragon Armour the Fallen Paladin wore – light, tough, flexible. It made sense. "Then I shall benefit from your change with this sword, dark knight. As a heavy blade in my hand is exactly how I kill things the most effectively." He nodded towards the passageway leading into darkness – or, as he had told Harrian, Saradush.

"As I saw this day." Reynald sheathed the Blade of Searing again, and gestured to the open arch where the first of the trials had been seen earlier. "You are a dangerous man indeed, Sarevok Anchev. If you can advise Harrian on the prophecies and the manners of the other Bhaalspawn as well as you can fight, then this endeavour may not be as futile as it threatens to be."

"Futility does not concern me. I merely wish to see this through." Sarevok's golden eyes fixed on Reynald's cloudy blue ones, but the Fallen Paladin was one of the few people to not turn away at the gaze. "I have no part to play in the Bhaalspawn wars anymore… not directly; merely as Harrian's lieutenant. But I wish to see who takes the throne I once believed was my own."

"Then we have something in common, though I confess to not caring overly who sits on the Throne of Bhaal as long as they do not wreak yet more havoc on the realms." Reynald frowned, his expression darkening. "Regardless, survival is not my first priority here. Fighting… now that is what I can do."

Sarevok raised an eyebrow as the Fallen Paladin sighed deeply, before giving a brief, clearly dismissive nod and turning to head back to his tent, on the other side of the camp. So the topic change had worked.

Sarevok had been taking the time to observe how to best deal with the others in the group. Harrian didn't bother him too much – he tended to be quiet, not make small-talk, or be possible to ignore if he did. His druid-whore merely glowered most of the time and avoided contact, which suited Sarevok perfectly well. He could tolerate Reynald, and was learning how to deal with him.

The little sister was more of a challenge. Imoen had been avoiding Sarevok since his return to life, not exactly filled with fear, but more of an apprehension. Although Harrian had earlier spoken of her not being 'dark' enough, it was clear that big brother was a little too lost in his self-importance, even if he claimed to not be proud of the strength of his blood. Regardless, little Imoen had a depth, a blackness and a power which made Sarevok sit up and pay attention. Having a small portion of a soul made a link, a connection, and there was something here Sarevok was burning to explore, even if it was just a desire to find that which he had once had…

But that could not happen if she avoided him. And so, in the group, that only left –

"That's _my _armour polish."

Sarevok forced a sigh, even as he smirked inwardly. He'd known perfectly well that he was taking Anomen's armour polish. "Would you prefer that I go into battle tomorrow unprepared? My armour in an unsuitable condition for combat? My sword rusty and incapable of meeting another blade in a fight?"

"I would not overly care," Anomen said wryly, folding his arms over his chest and looking down at the seated former Bhaalspawn. "Besides, I happen to need the polish this moment." There was a pause. "You could have _asked_."

"You were unavailable, talking to my brother," Sarevok grunted, returning to the polish of the Gorgon Plate. "I did not wish to wait. All tools need the correct care if they are to serve aptly. It would not do if I died tomorrow because of unsuitable equipment."

"Again, I would not care," Anomen harrumphed. "Just because Harrian believes that he needs your advice in this group on the matters looming does not mean that your presence is exactly _wanted_."

"Now it is my turn to not care. I am here because, as you said, I am needed. That is much more of an efficient state of being than if I were merely _wanted_. Do you have any particular _need _to be a member of this party? Or is it merely habit and a desire for our bold leader's sister keeping your here?" Sarevok said, with practiced nonchalance.

Anomen bristled slightly. "Harrian is my friend. I have pledged to see his fate through, and even without this pledge, I would be here because I _care _about what happens to him. My need to be a member of the party is my friendship. Something I doubt you can understand." He reached down to snatch up the pot of armour polish, and whirled on his heel to head back to his own tent.

"Not at all for Imoen?" Sarevok tested, then hid a smirk as Anomen halted. "I have a part of your beloved's soul. Do not think that I am oblivious to all that goes by." He finished off the scrap of polish still left on the cloth, then started to rub it all in with a fresh one. "I notice that you do not share a tent."

"That has _nothing _to do with you," Anomen hissed, his voice low and terse as he turned back to face the larger warrior. "It does not concern you. If you wish to be here for advice on the prophecies and killing things, then be here for that alone. Nothing more."

"It must anger you. Knowing that part of she you care about so much returned me to life. Created this abomination that sits before you. It must be unbearable." Sarevok's expression grew less taunting, and more grim. "It must be yet more unbearable that there is a deep, deep darkness within her that you cannot possibly fathom or even aid in the bearing of. She is beyond you, Watcher, and always will be."

"Fortunately, I don't take advice on my life from the dead," Anomen said testily. "And you do not understand her. You took a part of her _taint _to bring you back to life. The taint isn't her – you don't have a part of _her _in you, letting you breathe again. You have a part of the same blackness that killed you, again. So don't cheer just yet." Again, he turned to leave.

"Fool," Sarevok mumbled as Anomen hesitated, not moving off just yet. "The taint _is _her. It's a part of her, it's a part of Harrian; it mars every action she takes and affects every decision filling her head. Your affections lie with her? Your affections lie with the taint as well." Sarevok snorted, then set the Gorgon Plate down calmly, looking at the back of the priest's head.

Anomen didn't reply at first, merely stood for a long moment, staring down at his boots. Then he took a deep breath, as if he had found something to say, before instead shaking his head and striding off. Sarevok noted the slight falter in his step.

He twisted a little to look at the Sword of Chaos, lain down by Reynald on the large cloth where the rest of the equipment Harrian had passed him was also arranged neatly. His hand reached out to delicately touch the hilt, with its intricate carvings, so smooth and… familiar… to the touch.

Then he yanked the cloth away and wrapped his old sword in it neatly, stowing it back in the pack. There was no time for nostalgia. The blade was old, worn, useless to him now he had a better weapon. Sentimentality was not a reason to get killed.


	9. Chapter IX: Keeping Up Appearances

**Chapter IX: Keeping up Appearances**

Anomen narrowed his eyes darkly as the group assembled in front of the strange, deep and impenetrable darkness that was, Sarevok claimed, the next step on their journey. He had slept very poorly, the former Bhaalspawn's words and their environment leaving him too uncomfortable for slumber, and from the look of things the rest weren't much better off. There was an unspoken distance between Harrian and Jaheira, a discomfort they were both aware of but were not acknowledging, and Imoen was as introspective and far away as she had been last night. Reynald never seemed to sleep well, and Sarevok… well. Anomen couldn't tell, but it looked as if his first actual sleep in a year had been a poor one.

"So we just step through this," Harrian said unsteadily, glancing over at Sarevok, "and it takes us to where we want to go?"

"Where you _need _to go," Sarevok repeated testily. "Saradush. I know not why, but it is where the next piece of the puzzle shall fall. Hopefully events shall reveal themselves fairly shortly upon our arrival."

"Hopefully without anyone trying to kill us," Jaheira murmured dryly, gripping the hilt of her scimitar.

"And hopefully you haven't just jinxed it there, Jaheira," Imoen replied, looking somewhat pale. Anomen wanted to reach out to her, comfort her and work out what was plaguing her thoughts, but something stayed his hand. Now was not the time.

"I think we've used up our allocation of misfortune for the week," Reynald said, quietly confident, if with clear bags under his eyes. "But I must warn you that my stomach does not take kindly to teleportation of any kind."

"We hardly noticed our arrival here," Anomen reminded him, stepping towards the darkness of the pit when nobody else, not even Harrian, did. "I doubt this shall be much different. After all, it must be of the same kind."

"That was a summoning, Anomen; different magic. I'm not so sure –" Harrian's words died in Anomen's ears as the cleric took a clear step forward into the gloom, realising that they were getting nowhere with their debates and disagreements. After all, he reasoned as the darkness swallowed him disconcertingly, it couldn't be all _that _bad…

Then the darkness _shifted_, even though he couldn't make out any discernible change, and his stomach convulsed at the sensation of rapid, whirling movement through nothingness, towards nothingness, leaving nothingness behind. He thought he was going gag at the experience until, suddenly, a bright light appeared in the distance, and he was hurtling towards it inevitably.

"Stop! No bloodshed is necessary!" a voice was shouting fruitlessly across the havoc of the courtyard Anomen found himself standing in, shoulder to shoulder with an unkempt crowd, close towards the front, where a group of armed guards were moving threateningly. A tall tower loomed ahead of them, and behind him the buildings of a city were quite clear. So this was Saradush.

A quick glance around confirmed the arrival of the other five, and the crowd of commoners seemed to dissipate rapidly at their appearance – or at the threat of the hostile-looking guards in front – leaving them standing in this courtyard, well-armed arrivals from no obvious source.

"What is this?" a red-haired woman, whose voice Anomen recognised as that which had been shouting upon his first appearance. "A Child of Bhaal appears from nowhere? How is this possible?"

Anomen's eyes flickered over to Harrian, who seemed confused and threatened by the woman's knowledge, but their attention was rapidly grabbed by the score of guards, most of whom still seemed quite unruly.

"Spies!" a sergeant shouting, waving his pike threateningly at the party. "Gromnir warned us this might happen. Eliminate them!"

"No! They might be here for assistance!" the woman shouted, darting forwards to place herself in between them. "You should not –"

"Don't fall for their tricks," the sergeant sneered, grabbing the woman by the shoulder and bodily throwing her out of the way. He was a bull of a man and the red-haired woman quite slight; she flew through the air and landed on the cobblestones with a crack and a thump. "Kill them all, and let the gods sort them out!" he shouted to his soldiers.

The Flail of Ages was in Anomen's hand before he hardly realised what had happened, and his shield came up rapidly to block the pike-thrust of the nearest guard. A shout from over his shoulder denoted Sarevok's rapid involvement in the fight, and one of Imoen's unidentifiable spells hit the ranks of the soldiers quickly, sending the bulk of them flying back into a heap.

There were still enough stragglers though, and the party waded into them rapidly, weapons waving dangerously. But Harrian's group were seasoned adventurers and dangerous warriors, and most of the guards poorly-trained thugs. Sarevok mowed two down with one sword-swing, Reynald was rapidly encircled by a few of the recovering guards but was deflecting all of their attacks more than ably, giving them more than he was receiving, and even Harrian was throwing himself into the front line of this fight, street thugs in armour being little danger to the dangerous swordsman of a thief. Jaheira had thrown herself into the thickest part of the guards who had been knocked down by Imoen's spell and was dealing with those who had recovered quite easily, whilst the pink-haired mage herself was throwing magic missiles around liberally to bring the guards down.

As such, when Anomen brought his flail crashing down through the helmet of one more guard, felling him instantly, and looked around to face the next assailant, he found himself with nobody in front of him but the other five, who were all looking similarly surprised at how easily the foes, who had outnumbered them three-to-one in focused combat, had fallen.

Sarevok spat on the floor and raised the visor of his helm to wipe his brow. "Pathetic training," he stated derisively, before leaning down to investigate the fallen sergeant, cleaved in half by the Warblade. He flipped the torso over so the body was facing skywards, then reached into the armour to pull out a finely crafted and clearly lightly enchanted dagger. Sarevok glanced over at it, looking dubious, before finally tossing it away again.

Harrian, who had been watching Sarevok, suddenly jerked a bit more into action and glanced over to where the red-haired woman was finally getting to her feet and dusting herself off, not looking overly the worse for wear. "Your intervention did not work, I fear," the Bhaalspawn said, not unkindly as he stepped over to her, sheathing the bloody Equaliser.

Anomen glanced at the bodies briefly, defeated so easily, before he clipped the Flail of Ages to his belt again and moved to stand with Harrian, giving the woman an inquisitive look. She had seemed fairly young at a first glance upon their arrival, but closer inspection showed the lines of age and worry across her face, and she held herself with a more regal bearing than even many of the young nobles Anomen had met in Athkatla.

"I had not expected it to," she said ruefully, smiling at him. "I am Melissan, a friend, and I thank you for your timely intervention. The brutish guards would have killed the townspeople for certain."

"We did not exactly plan our arrival time," Anomen said, wiping some of the blood from his breastplate.

"And they attacked _us _first. How did you know that Harrian is a Child of Bhaal?" Jaheira asked, clearly instantly suspicious of Melissan. Anomen gave her a brief, sideways glance to see that the druid was wearing her cold mask of being damned hard to convince.

"I have kept close tabs on all of the Children of Bhaal. And your arrival here could, at this time, only be the work of a Bhaalspawn. These are times when things do not happen merely by coincidence," Melissan insisted.

"Close tabs?" Reynald repeated dubiously.

Imoen let out a quiet groan. "Great. Yet more meddlers."

"My interest is purely benevolent, I assure you. Though I must admit that it has not brought good fortune to all of the Bhaalspawn. When the wars began to break out, I searched for as many Children of Bhaal as I could, and brought them to this city, Saradush, for protection. But now it is under siege," Melissan admitted.

"Smart. Bring all of the Bhaalspawn to one place where any marauding army can wipe them out in one fell swoop. Are you a liar or just an imbecile?" Sarevok rumbled, stopping in his quiet regard of the sky and their surroundings to snipe at Melissan.

"Sarevok…" Harrian waved a hand at him. "Who's besieging this city?"

Anomen kept one ear on the conversation as he tuned out briefly, his gaze going over to Imoen. The young mage was clearly also not paying too much attention to the situation as she nudged one of the bodies of the guards with the toe of her boot, before stepping back quickly. Her elven chain was streaked with a few slashes of crimson blood, her pink hair plastered down against her forehead by sweat. Where the rest of the party, who had been exerting themselves more physically, had hardly strained themselves in the defeat of these guards, she seemed exhausted.

Resisting the urge again to go to her, Anomen tuned in briefly to what Melissan was saying. It seemed that Gromnir Il-Khan, a Bhaalspawn general, had taken up control of Saradush in defence of the city against the siege of the Fire Giant Yaga-Shura, another Bhaalspawn with powerful allies. But Gromnir had holed himself up in the castle, ignoring the shouts of the people of Saradush and becoming, Melissan said, increasingly mad and paranoid, doing little to save the city and leaving the defence to a few squabbling captains.

Anomen was hardly surprised when it turned out Melissan wanted Harrian to try and talk to Gromnir and get him to do something.

Harrian raised a hand quickly. "Wait. No. I want an explanation first. Of who you are, and who this Yaga-Shura is, and who his allies are. I'm not running around blind for _anybody_." Over his shoulder, Sarevok took a step forward, and Melissan seemed to give him a long look before she replied. Anomen couldn't tell if she recognised him as she had seemingly recognised Harrian, or was just considering his foreboding appearance. Something told him it was the former.

"Answers will come when you have dealt with Gromnir," Melissan said shortly. "I cannot tell you more than that. Please, Harrian."

Harrian folded his arms across his chest. "I can leave this place whenever I wish. I have no need to remain here. I do not need to break the siege to escape Saradush. I can go wherever I wish from my powers."

Anomen wondered if this were actually true, but decided not to speak up. He disliked where Harrian was going, but hoped the bluff would be enough to force Melissan.

It seemed it wouldn't, as the red-haired woman placed her hands on her hips firmly. "You would abandon these people?"

"I could. You know it," Harrian told her with just as much certainty.

"But you won't."

There was a long silence, filled only by a quiet, muttered curse from Sarevok as he kicked the fallen pike of the nearest guard away noisily.

"I shall see you shortly, Harrian," Melissan said, more softly as she turned and headed down one of the nearest alleyways, seeming – to Anomen's eyes – to fade into the darkness most disconcertingly.

"She was lying," Sarevok said calmly, frowning. "About almost everything."

"Yes. I know," Harrian replied, nodding calmly. "But we shall see if we can talk to this mad Gromnir. If nothing else, I'm not having his guards run around massacring protesting crowds. I'll get my answers from Melissan when the time comes."

Reynald looked over, tearing his eyes away from where the red-haired woman had disappeared to. "If she wants to give you them."

Sarevok shrugged. "She can be _convinced _to want to," he said simply.

Jaheira threw him a look of disgust. "We are not torturers." She glanced over at Harrian, her expression going noticeably blanker. "But we must not allow her to tug us along in the darkness. That is simply dangerous."

"The time will come. Right now, we must think about these people," Harrian said.

"Right now, we should find a place to stay. Unless we wish to spend more nights in Bhaal's plane?" Anomen said, once again noticing the intensely tired air that hung around the party, both in terms of physical fatigue and psychological wear. "There is a siege on, but some rest seems to be in order."

The cleric looked up at the sky. It was already mid-afternoon. Anomen found it hard to believe that it had been yesterday morning when they had been preparing to depart from Suldanessellar. Time had flown by, with battles and souls and destinies floating around to confuse them all.

Reynald nodded, glancing down the street. "There seems to be an inn or a tavern further this way. Regardless, we might be able to ask for some directions. We should gather ourselves, find out as much as we can about the situation from sources other than this Melissan before we go and involve ourselves in the workings of this town. At the very least, we need to work out _how _to get into that castle."

They all turned to look at the tower, tall, foreboding, and looking quite impenetrable. "I suppose a frontal assault is quite out of the question," Imoen mused, frowning.

The party got many suspicious and odd sideways glances from the people of Saradush as they made their way down the main street in the direction Reynald had gestured in. Despite their arrival and the dissipation of the thuggish crowd of guards, there was a strong air of being distinctly unwelcome, and they stood out from all of the other individuals in the city, with their equipment and the power they exuded. Anomen kept his eyes simply on where they were going, rather than examining the city and taking in their surroundings. That could come later, when he felt less… overwhelmed. Or threatened.

He was quite glad when they reached the inn, sincerely hoping that they'd get fewer stares when they were inside. Indeed, as Harrian pushed open the door, the general revelry of a tavern reached their ears, full of talk and laughter and ale, despite these dark times. The crowd inside was varied, though the common room of the inn was only half full, but the sheltering from the dark times of the city was clear.

The faces were varied, only a handful turning in their direction, though. Arrivals did not seem to be a concern in the sea of skins of various shades and hues, of clothing of various materials and dyes, of hair of various lengths and colours, including even blue…

…Blue?

"My raven! I _knew _that we would cross paths once again! It seems that the fates themselves demand that we be not long apart, you and I!"

Anomen raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in despair as the door of the tavern clattered shut behind them and Harrian stared in astonishment at the man who was approaching them with a broad smile on his face.

"I… yes," he stammered slowly. "They do seem to rather insist on that… Haer'Dalis…"


	10. Chapter X: Something Blue

**Chapter X: Something Blue**

Reynald blinked as Haer'Dalis, the tiefling bard he'd known only a short few days before he had parted ways from the company and gone in his own direction, approached to hug Harrian warmly. The swashbuckler returned the gesture vaguely, looking very confused and surprised, before taking a stilted step back and staring blankly.

"It warms the heart to see you again, my raven," the bard declared firmly. "I should have known that in these fateful times you would appear… and none too soon, considering the state of matters in this chaotic city. We are watching entropy at work, my friend!"

"What, exactly, are you…"

Haer'Dalis ignored Harrian's oncoming question and turned to Imoen, standing next to the swashbuckler and wearing a rather lost yet sceptical expression. The tiefling gave her a deep, elaborate bow, before grabbing her hand – before she could react and pull it back, Reynald rather thought – and kissing it lightly.

"My wildflower, you are as delicate as ever… it pains this sparrow's soul to know you are witnessing such dark times as these. Some things _are _above the destruction and death of doom, and you are one of them," he declared.

Reynald raised a hand to his mouth to hide the smirk threatening when he saw the expression on Anomen's face. The young cleric clearly hadn't read Imoen's completely bemused look correctly.

Haer'Dalis seemed to have noticed Anomen's reaction as well, for he turned to face the knight and clapped him on the shoulders. "My eagle! You are looking splendid, as always! Permit me to make a deduction – honour and glory at the raven's side called, and you were not found wanting."

"Tiefling, _why _do you persist in appearing whenever you are least wanted?" was all Anomen replied, seeming pained and defeated.

The bard had already moved on, however, ignoring both Reynald and Jaheira – the Fallen Paladin guessed she had never much tolerated someone as ridiculous as he – and finally reaching Sarevok, who seemed particularly unamused.

"And who is this? A tall warrior I see before me!" Haer'Dalis chuckled wryly, nodding at the burly fighter. "Another bold soul caught in the wake of the raven's beating wings? Following the chaos, seeing where destiny leads?"

Sarevok's hand shot out and grabbed Haer'Dalis by the neck, bodily lifting him up off the ground. Reynald saw Anomen's brief expression of satisfaction as the rest of the party stood around, distinctly taken aback and taking time to react. Quite a bit of time, Reynald noted.

"Who _are _you, tiefling, that dares to presume to approach us? And cease your riddle-speak; I have no patience for it at this time." Haer'Dalis had turned an interesting shade of blue by this time; going quite nicely with his hair.

Reynald reached out to place a gloved hand on Sarevok's plated forearm. "Rest, friend. As you should have gathered, he is known to us. This tiefling travelled with Harrian for some time… though mostly before I joined the party."

With a grunt, Sarevok released the struggling Haer'Dalis, who collapsed to the floor, gasping somewhat. Reynald became slowly aware that all eyes in the tavern had turned in their direction at Sarevok's strangling of the bard. _I think we must abandon the hopes of maintaining a low profile_…

"Do not call me _friend_," Sarevok sneered at Reynald, then  turned to Harrian, who seemed to have regained something of his composure. "Does the dark knight speak truly? This wretch is a friend of yours?"

Harrian seemed to consider this one for a moment before he nodded firmly. "Yes. We travelled together." He stretched a hand down to help Haer'Dalis up, and the gasping bard accepted it gratefully, clambering to his feet.

"Perhaps I should… be more careful as to whom I greet in what manner, my hound," the tiefling mumbled, rubbing his throat ruefully and giving Sarevok a look. "But no harm done, see? My singing shall return to normal very soon, I am certain."

"Wonderful," Anomen said dryly, and rather loudly. He ignored the brief glance from Imoen.

Jaheira cleared her throat a little. Like Reynald, she had watched most of the proceedings quietly, though had seemed less inclined to intervene on Haer'Dalis' behalf as he had. "Bard… perhaps you should explain what you are doing here?"

"Your appearance was as unexpected to me as I'm sure mine was to you," Haer'Dalis replied casually, gesturing to the small round table he'd been seated at, with only four chairs available. He, Harrian, Imoen and Jaheira slid into them wordlessly, leaving the other three to exchange slightly lost glances before moving off to drag their own stools up.

"Let's just say that we're meant to be here," Harrian said wryly as Reynald sat down. He didn't envy Anomen and Sarevok, seated stiffly in their plate mail. Already, he was appreciating the freedom the light, supple Red Dragon scale offered, both in combat and elsewhere.

"More matters of destiny." Haer'Dalis nodded, a little more serious now. "I may suggest that could be why I ended up here as well. After all, of the many cities of Tethyr to visit in my wanderings, I happened to come across Saradush, which happened to be besieged by a great Fire Giant Bhaalspawn and you happened to arrive in?"

"Or you're just a magnet for trouble, bard," Anomen said somewhat bitterly. Reynald had been around the group long enough before to know that the cleric had usually kept his mumblings about the tiefling fairly quiet. He had not advertised his dislike – though it had been plain for all to see. Clearly, he was most upset by this return.

"That I am, young Anomen, that I am," Haer'Dalis agreed instead of being angry, nodding and chuckling.

Anomen bristled. "Do not patronise me, bard. I doubt you are hardly much older than I am!"

Haer'Dalis raised an eyebrow. "You overlook the blood of fiends and elves within me, my eagle. By Toril reckoning, I have lived sixty-three years."

They all looked at him oddly, all except for Jaheira, who was examining the faintly seedy bar with an expression of faint disgust and did not seem to be even slightly fazed by Haer'Dalis' announcement, and Sarevok, who just seemed bored.

Harrian coughed sheepishly, and gave Imoen a wry look. "As youngest around this table, I am not entirely sure that I can comment on that."

"Yes, little brother." Imoen seemed to regain an expression that vaguely approached normality, and nudged him in the ribs as Reynald chuckled wryly. "Does that mean you get to go and fetch the drinks for us all?"

Harrian gave her a look of mock-outrage. "But I am your vaunted leader! _You _go get the drinks!"

"No. As powerful archmage, I'm exempt. Besides, I'm sleepy," Imoen said, giving a wide yawn for effect.

Harrian grinned at the others. "Who's next youngest?"

"Twenty-seven," Sarevok rumbled, still looking bored. His eyes flickered over to one of the passing waitresses, piercing and evaluating. Reynald noticed that she deposited the drinks on the table next to them, where two dwarves were seated, then made a particularly fast withdrawal from the area.

"Twenty-nine," Reynald offered, also chuckling a little with the certainty of rest. All eyes flickered over to Anomen.

"Twenty-five," the cleric groaned, looking defeated. "But I… I must protest. After all…"

"Gods." Jaheira rolled her eyes and stood up. "The forty-six year-old half-elf will collect the drinks for the group of immature brats. You shall have mead, and like it, too," she added, shaking her head and starting over towards the bar.

"Forty-six?" Harrian echoed, looking vaguely surprised. Reynald supposed he might have not thought about this before.

Jaheira sighed with impatience, though Reynald was sure he could real the slight tight smile she often wore when berating the thief. "Harrian, broaden your mind and think outside of such limited human terms."

Harrian nodded sheepishly, grinning a little, and Imoen chuckled again as Jaheira headed off, swatting him on the arm.

Reynald rested his head in his hands sleepily, then glanced up again. There was something perpetually strange about this party, he had noticed over recent months. They could be trapped in a city under siege, with fate ready to rain down hailstorms, and difficulties tugging at the party personally on all fronts… yet could still banter like this. Granted, Reynald knew the others well enough now to recognise the slight distance in Jaheira gibes, the true guilt in Harrian's haplessness, the vague uncertainty in Imoen's laughs, and had no doubt these would remain until addressed. But these were people who certainly knew how to sit on a problem. Sometimes that helped, if it was not the time to manage issues. Sometimes problems sat on tended to just grow.

"It seems your wench has spoken, there, brother," Sarevok murmured, smirking a smile that was devoid of even Haer'Dalis' playfulness.

There was a taut pause as Reynald exchanged a glance with Anomen, Imoen dropped her eyes in an avoiding manner, and Harrian's expression went blank as he eyed Sarevok. "Wench?" he repeated in a deceptively innocent voice.

The pause remained, the strong Bhaalspawn and former child of murder eyeing each other until Haer'Dalis cleared his throat noisily. "I… ah… hope you shall linger tonight for my performance here in the tavern? Some ballads… you may recognise them?"

Harrian faltered for a moment, before tearing his eyes away from Sarevok and shifting his blank gaze to Haer'Dalis. "If I feature in any of these songs of yours, tiefling, I shall be most unamused."

Reynald was quite sure the table couldn't take any more tense silences before Harrian's face broke into a smile at last, and the swashbuckler laughed loudly. It took only a second before Anomen joined in pointedly, clearly wanting to avoid any of the upcoming confrontations. Just as Reynald was wondering whether or not to join in, Jaheira appeared mercifully with a tray of drinks.

"Next time, you people can be less lazy and collect them," she said curtly, shaking her head as she sat down.

"How much did they cost?" Harrian asked, reaching for the purse he kept inside his leathers, rather than on the risky pouch at the belt.

"Two gold each. The bartender tried to charge me double, but I managed to make him see the wrongness of his ways," Jaheira said with a shrug, passing some spare coppers over to him.

"You glared at him until he relented?" Reynald guessed, then ducked his head good-naturedly as Jaheira's glower, this time a little self-mocking at least, was turned in his direction, and he decided to grab a tankard and stay quiet. He did, however, see Jaheira pass Harrian his drink, and there was a certain lingering there on both of their parts – though furtive, as if they shouldn't, and when Jaheira glanced away first, Harrian wore a deeply pensive expression. Reynald guessed their leader still had reparations to make for his stunt.

"So, tiefling," Sarevok started, taking a deep gulp of the mead and letting out a slight sigh. Reynald realised, with a slight jolt, that this was probably his first great drink in year, just as last night would have been his first meal. "Are you planning to join us in our journey, or are you planning to merely prance on stage aimlessly and unproductively until this city falls about your ears?"

The final long silence came, and Reynald felt like smashing it as he looked up from his tankard. Sarevok wore a sneer, Anomen looked intensely worried, Jaheira unimpressed, Harrian curious, and Imoen… a little sick. But Haer'Dalis… was quite unreadable.


	11. Chapter XI: The Chosen

**Chapter XI: The Chosen**

Saradush exuded a great tenseness in the streets, the buildings, the people that Harrian had never before really seen. Trademeet and Imnesvale, when the party had been there in the past, had been filled with a certain taut air that kept one on their toes, but it was subtle, below the surface. Here, the city reeked of death and fear, and with great catapult shots hurtling into the streets intermittently, Harrian couldn't say he was overly surprised. But here they were, in a great unknown environment, and thus it was quite necessary to scout around to see what they could learn about the place. They also needed to do their best to find a way into Gromnir's keep.

It had been Reynald who suggested they break into pairs and report back in a few hours, so as to cover more of the city and attract less attention, which Harrian had thought was an excellent idea. But the actual forming of the pairs was more of a blur in his memory, which was why he was now walking the streets with Imoen by his side, Anomen and Jaheira having opted to take the northern district together, Sarevok and Reynald taking the river.

Fortunately, the two of them would probably present the least distinctive sight of all of the pairs. There was no hulking Sarevok in his huge armour, or Anomen with his shining plate to make a declaration of skill and wealth that would come as being intensely different in these surroundings. Harrian simply wore his shadow dragon scale, faintly indistinguishable as it was and covered by his cloak anyway. Imoen had left her elven chain behind in the rooms they had arranged for themselves back at the inn and was looking even more 'normal' then he was – she was doubtless the member of the party who could be the most deadly with the least amount of equipment.

He gave his sister a brief, sideways glance as they meandered down the streets, trying not to attract attention to themselves. Her eyes were downcast, watching the uneven cobblestones as if to ensure she didn't stumble. Harrian wasn't fooled; the agile Imoen wouldn't be unbalanced by anything as simple as rough paving. If anything, she was more aware than he was, especially in an urban environment.

But to his surprise, it was she that started up the conversation, and Harrian figured she must have realised he was ready to press his concern but she wished to do the directing of the talk rather than be interrogated.

"Is this how you expected things to go?" she said, looking up at him as they turned a corner into another one of the broad, empty streets of Saradush. "When you sneaked away from Suldanessellar, I mean?"

Harrian made a slight grimace, knowing that now she was deliberately being difficult just so that he couldn't pressure her. "Of course not, Immy, you know that. I wasn't expecting us to end up here. I've said as much before. How many more times do you want me to say it?" Irritation crept into his voice, unbidden and uncontrolled.

"Perhaps until you actually say it in a way which explains suitably why you sneaked away like you did," Imoen replied tersely, paying more attention to their surroundings now. They had wandered for an hour or so now, but had not found anywhere distinctive in this city. It was turning to death before their very eyes.

"I've said why as well," Harrian insisted, wrapping his cloak around him a little more. "Some things are my own business. I don't mean that in a horrible way, but… I didn't know what to expect from the grove. If it was something ground-shuddering, I wanted to find out on my own terms and deal with it myself before you all found out, instead of having to deal with the news _and _your reactions at once. That's something you can understand, isn't it? Worrying what others will think about surprising news?" He couldn't quite keep the unfair edge out of his voice.

Imoen faltered a little. "I…" She shook her head, before resuming her confident stride. "The situation's different. My little secret didn't turn our existence upside down. You were walking into an unknown situation without our help or even knowledge. That's… dangerous, Harrian. In these times." Her voice was more angry than concerned.

"I wasn't keeping a secret," Harrian defended himself truthfully. "And are you more annoyed about me not telling the party, or about me not telling _you_?"

She came to a halt at last, rounding on him with a bristling, indignant air he was unused to from her. "I'm your sister, Harrian, in more ways than one. So not only is it that you don't trust me, but you seem to think that matters of the Children of Bhaal affect you, and you only."

Harrian blinked, suddenly a little clueless. He hadn't quite expected this vein of anger, which made enough sense to him that he suddenly felt very ashamed. "I… it's not like that, Imoen," he started weakly.

"No?" She took a step back, her expression crumpling before she resumed walking. He fell into step beside her uncertainly. "I know you've been looking out for me since about forever. And I know you're finding it hard to understand that I don't necessarily need looking after. But I'm not the lost little kid anymore, Harrian. I can take care of myself."

"I know!" Harrian declared indignantly. "I have never coddled you in battle or in the party. I know perfectly well that there are many areas you can best me, and I'm fully aware that the party _needs _you to operate as it does. I don't treat you like a little kid!"

"Correction," Imoen started slowly. "My foster-brother doesn't treat me as a little kid. Sure, he gets a bit protective sometimes, but I know that's concern, not hovering. The party leader doesn't treat me as a little kid either. He recognises I'm a powerful mage and a dangerous rogue." She gave him a short, sideways glance which almost rocked him with its impact. "But the Bhaalspawn doesn't recognise that I, another Child of Bhaal, needs no more sheltering than he. I may not have been aware of my heritage for as long as you, Harrian, but the time of dealing with the _unknown_ voices has, I think, also given me an edge over you."

"I didn't think I was protecting you," Harrian said with fatigue, half-closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. "Just that… Imoen, the prophecies aren't revolving around you!"

"What makes you so sure?" Imoen demanded, and for the first time he realised that it wasn't just anger that was motivating her. Fear ran strong, too. "Don't you _remember _the fight in Hell against Irenicus? Because I _certainly do_!"

Now they were getting vague glances from passers-by. In the short wanderings, Harrian had worked out one thing about the people of Saradush. They could be split into two categories: the Bhaalspawn, and those who feared and hated the Bhaalspawn. Harrian really didn't want a run-in with either category when there was a discussion like this afoot. But Imoen could clearly not be budged.

He took a deep breath. "Did it cross your mind that I'm an interfering fool?" he asked quietly, contritely.

"No, Harrian, I never considered that you made decisions for other people without even letting them know," Imoen snapped, becoming sarcastic in her fury. "But whilst you could have got away with it before, now isn't the time to hold back. Destiny's running rampant, the time of the prophecies is at hand. Don't you think that I have the right to decide for myself what my part will be – to whatever extent fate will let me?"

"Alright!" Harrian replied firmly, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's just… Imoen, I know I'm wrong. I _know_. But I… I didn't want this fate. I don't want to have the prophecies revolving around whether or not I'm going to die or bring back Bhaal. I don't want the nightmares, or the bloodlusts. But I can't change it. And I _know _I can't change it for you either, but… can't you just acknowledge that I _wanted_ to be able to?"

There was a long pause as they stared at each other, stuck in a whirling maelstrom of emotions. Then Imoen finally broke the silence, speaking quietly – so Harrian knew full well just how much he'd managed to screw this up. "You need to stop making decisions for me. And for the rest of the party. Because right now, Harrian, times are rapidly ceasing to become forgiving enough to tolerate you being a difficult ass."

"I'm not an ass," he said vaguely defensively, and rather pathetically. "I… look, I had my _reasons_, Imoen," he continued, finding some strength in his voice. "And I have the right to not have my life splashed across in front of everyone. You're my friends, my _family_, yes… but I don't ask any of the others to bare their soul to me the way mine gets thrown out in front of everyone."

"Now's not the _time _for privacy!" Imoen declared. "The time for that comes when we're not fighting for our lives constantly. When all of this is over. If it ever is…" Her voice trailed off. "I… I don't want to lecture you, Harrian. I can't do it, for one." A slight, familiar and endearing smile tugged at her lips. "I know what you mean. I spent three months hiding the truth from most people, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," Harrian said, but more wryly than accusingly. "And I remember the chaos it nearly caused." He nodded slowly. "Come on, big sis. These are hard times. We're all going to mess up from time to time." He looked a little pathetic.

"Not too much, I hope, or they won't be hard times for very long at all." Imoen shook her head, then punched him lightly on the arm, chuckling a little. "You know how you get through the difficult bits of life, Harrian? By turning to your friends."

"Hypocrite."

"No, just someone who learned from their mistakes," Imoen replied, looking a little more serious. "But… hey, let's head back to the inn," she said at last, shaking her head. "Get another ale. Wait for the others to get back."

"Hmm. Yeah. I guess it's somebody else's turn to chew me out next," Harrian mumbled, making a wry face.

"Don't worry. Jaheira will just kill you. I'm sure it'll be painless," Imoen chuckled. "She has a right to."

"I… I know. But I don't think she's angry," Harrian admitted. "There's… something else there. She just seems… distant. Odd. And not as if she's trying to resist yanking my head off. Just as if she doesn't know what to do. And that's _not _a general state of affairs for Jaheira."

"I'm not the one to ask, though, am I?" Imoen pointed out wryly.

"Where in the Hells did Agony Aunt Imoen with the moral high ground come from?" Harrian snapped at last with exasperation. "You're practically forcing Anomen away with a stick and he's running around like a lost puppy not knowing why!"

"Now, that's unfair, Harrian, I –"

"No, it's fair," he interrupted, stepping in front of her, his expression and voice softening. "So you know what we'll do? Both talk to who needs to be talked to tonight. Because if we want to get through our fates looming ahead, we need a strong party. A party not split by personal problems." He extended his hand towards her. "Deal?"

Imoen considered this a moment, looking rather sheepish, then she shook his hand. "Alright. Deal."


	12. Chapter XII: The Watchers

**Chapter XII: The Watchers**

"You seem lost in thought, my friend," Anomen commented idly to Jaheira as the two of them proceeded down the main street of Saradush. The emptiness of the city was clear and disconcerting; in Athkatla, every corner would have a merchant or five ready to hawk their wares. The streets would have been bustling with a life and a vitality, and just moving from one road to another would have been a challenge with the crowds. They would not have stood out with their weapons or their clear finery, and would have been assaulted with a medley of sounds, smells and sights. Here, in the darkest depths of the siege, all was quiet. Nobody ventured far from their homes any more. There were no merchants, and no crowds. Life had been sucked out of everything by fear.

"This city is… depressing," was all Jaheira replied. Anomen knew that this was the truth, not to mention the fact that this was a distinctive and sudden shift from the green and natural beauty of Suldanessellar. To go from homes high in the lush forests to a trampled and beaten city was something even he found distinctly unwelcome. It had to be an even more disconcerting change for a druid.

He wasn't enough of a fool to believe that was all there was amiss, regardless. After all, he shared some of her concern, and had enough experience with Jaheira in her dark moods to recognise them when they came. But before he could focus his shift in topic, Jaheira suddenly took the offensive.

"You are hardly as high-spirited as you were a few days ago, for that matter," she started probingly, idly kicking a pebble along the cobblestones and not looking at him, for all the world seeming as if this was just a vague comment about the weather instead of the barbed investigation it was.

Anomen shifted a little in surprise, caught a little off balance, then managed a shrug, assuming his own casual air. "These are trying times. Action and darkness again after months of… peace. It does not sit well on the stomach."

"There is more than action and darkness shadowing your thoughts," Jaheira said pointedly, and he had the disconcerting sensation of talking to a mirror of his emotions. "It is not common for you to be… quite so distant in your thoughts."

"Nor you," Anomen bit back defensively, giving her a short, mildly irritated glare. "At least, not since the Underdark," he continued, a little sullen now and making his point in a moderately below-the-belt manner.

"And I have not seen you like this since before Bodhi's lair," Jaheira countered calmly, not rising to the bait.

A silence fell upon them as they regarded each other, until Anomen made a noise of disgust and resumed their walking again. "This is a damnably large city. We should have beaten Reynald and Sarevok to the docks. The air would probably not be fresh there, but water is much more calming than a dead trading district. There might as well be ghosts populating the city, for all the difference it would make."

They paused again, Anomen feigning interest in an empty shop window before he continued. "It… it simply does not sit well with me. How powerless I feel before them. Even if help is accepted, even in the grand scheme of things I feel no more useful than a walking sword-arm and spellbook. And when I am pushed away…" He glanced at her. "When we are _all _pushed away… it makes it harder." He hardly needed to specify who the 'they' were.

"And just makes us think they know how powerless we feel… and are," Jaheira agreed quietly, not looking at him now. Anomen realised that he was finding it to be a breath of fresh air to discuss with Jaheira these troubles. They had only leaned on each other intermittently in the past, even with their similar worries, but every time before it had helped. Anomen was slowly realising he didn't necessarily need to keep everything bottled up.

"Aye. I am displeased Harrian kept us in the dark with his departure to the grove, but not… overly surprised." He shifted his feet, realising how it sounded and that he was being a little too lenient in his evaluation. "It does not mean I think you do not have a right to anger, of course, merely…"

Jaheira shook her head. "I am not angry with him."

Anomen blinked. He hadn't expected this. "Truly?"

The ghost of a smile tugged at her lips as she glanced at him. "Angry at that which made him feel he had to deceives us, yes, though I understand why he did so. But… I have dealt with any initial anger towards him. Matters forced me to."

"You understand?" Anomen echoed, feeling hapless. "Then you have an advantage over I, my friend. I rarely understand anything Harrian does or thinks. And I especially do not understand matters of his heritage."

There was a long pause as Jaheira's eyes remained on the cobbled streets, before she sighed slightly. "Khalid and I knew of Harrian's heritage before he did. We were away on Harper business when he came under Gorion's care, but we came to Candlekeep as soon as we could – he had sent Belgrade to summon us, saying it was of immense importance.

"When we got to Candlekeep, all we found was Gorion and a babe. But he quickly explained just… _who_ Harrian was, and the situation became so much more dire. And then… hah, then he asked Khalid and I to be this dark boy's guardians, should anything go wrong." She chuckled wryly, shaking her head. "'Should anything go wrong'. And even forgetting his heritage, this was _Harrian_ we were talking about. Beacon of disaster." 

"I can see that being… trying," Anomen observed grimly, if uncertainly. "To know of his heritage, and still to bind your fate to his?" He shook his head. "I hold nothing against Harrian for not telling me, considering how many people react badly, but when I found out about his Bhaal-blood I stayed by his side _despite _it. I knew he was a good man by then, my friend by then, and not someone to abandon. If I had known from the start, I might not have joined you all that day under Ribald's roof, but have been… more cautious. And it would be a different life I lead indeed."

Jaheira nodded. "I did not want the responsibility at first. It was Khalid who won me over, after much convincing, and yet all the time I reassured myself by insisting that I would not be needed. Gorion was eternal, or so I thought,. When he arranged to meet us at the Friendly Arm in, I assumed it would be the last of it. I believed they would arrive, and we would travel together for parts unknown, but Harrian was a grown man by then and I had considered my service to be over."

"But Sarevok killed Gorion before he got there?" Anomen checked.

Jaheira's eyes flashed angrily at the mention of Sarevok's name. "And Harrian came to the inn without Gorion. But what he _did _have was a young slip of a girl who promptly pick-pocketed everyone in sight, just to 'hone her skills'. Then there were the two Zhents; a necromancer and a street thug."

"I see Imoen hasn't changed in all this time," Anomen noted dryly, with a slight smile.

Jaheira gave a wry smirk. "Harrian has. He was an uncouth lout, a boy both scared and unimpressed with the world. He was even more arrogant than he is now, and quite happy to bumble through the world his own way, not to mention ignored our teachings utterly. It took many training sessions from Khalid before he learnt respect and how to avoid being injured in a fight. They may call him the hero of Baldur's Gate… sometimes… but he was still a boy almost up until you met him. Then there was… his heritage. Sarevok. And Irenicus' dungeon."

Anomen shivered. "So much comes down to Irenicus."

"He finished what Bhaal started," Jaheira corrected. "Gorion left a letter for Harrian, which we found upon our return to Candlekeep. It explained everything… but by the time it was over, he'd realised that it was not news to Khalid and I. I never had, and never have since, seen him so hurt and angry and… betrayed." She shook her head. "I thought he was going to walk out right then in the argument afterwards. Abandon it all."

"Understandably so," Anomen said uncomfortably.

"Yes…." Jaheira nodded. "I've watched him go from boy to man, from lout to hero. I've seen him at his best and at his worst… but I don't think I'll ever be able to understand him. Understand the darkness within him." She looked at Anomen. "I don't even know if Imoen can, though she has more chance than I. Yet what I do know is that the burden he carries is… great. More, I think, than I could bear."

"I wish we could do more for him," Anomen said helplessly. "I wish I could do more for Imoen, too. I just don't know _what _I _could_ do."

"Imoen is going through her own phase of understanding her heritage, coming to terms with it. She has Harrian to support her… and you, if needed," Jaheira reassured him. "Simply stand and wait. And even if she does not turn to you, she will know you are there."

"She never turned to me before," Anomen said falteringly. "Before, it was that damned bard."

Jaheira gave him a sceptical look. "You are jealous of Haer'Dalis? I hope that is out of habit, Anomen, not any real fear, for I am sure it will be unfounded."

"What makes you so sure?" Anomen grimaced. "I do not trust him, but I recognise how very important he was to Imoen when she discovered her heritage. Then, he helped. What is to say he will not help now?"

Jaheira looked at him, and shook her head a little. "Have a little faith in the girl, Anomen, and her feelings for you. She is not fool enough to run to that ridiculous bard just because he is here." She sighed, eyes turning skywards. "You did not see her in Hell, when she turned her fury on Irenicus. Power given by her Bhaal-taint, for certain, but prompted by what happened to _you_." She fixed him with a piercing look.

"What happened to… yes. The spell." Anomen shifted his feet and looked away. "But I… succeeded at resisting. Helm has a purpose for all things, and I know he had a reason for granting me… life. Resistance, I mean." He faltered, then resumed his pace down the street, still not meeting her gaze.

Jaheira was looking evaluatingly at him by now, but didn't seem about to question him or voice whatever she was thinking. "Yes. Just… have faith in them, Anomen. They carry heavy burdens, but are no fools." She smiled wryly. "Well, Imoen is not."

Anomen chuckled a little, but he sobered quickly. "Yes. It is just… you are right, they carry heavy loads. They have their fates harassing them from all sides." He sighed, and shook his head. "I just wonder if they understand how hard it is to _not _be the ones with the destinies."


	13. Chapter XIII: Lessons Learnt

**Chapter XIII: Lessons Learnt**

Anomen had to admit one thing, now he could look upon matters… moderately more objectively than he once had; Haer'Dalis was quite a performer. Granted, his songs were not offering quite the release of tension the tavern patrons seemed to want, but the cleric would be fair and acknowledge that hardly anything _would_.

Regardless, he was still uncomfortable with the situation. He and Jaheira had returned from their walk to find Harrian and Imoen seated at a table in the corner, discussing some matter with a fervency that had died the moment they'd walked up. Silence had settled upon the four of them, those keystones of the group, until Sarevok and Reynald had returned. Then it had been down to Reynald – _Reynald _– to maintain an active conversation as silence fell.

Jaheira had exchanged uncomfortable glances with Anomen, though he'd been unable to transmit instructions to talk to Harrian solely using his eyes. As such, he hadn't been overly surprised when she'd made her excuses and headed off, let alone when Harrian had mumbled something and scurried after her ten minutes later. Sarevok had headed off to get more mead and then had not returned, whilst Reynald had been lost in thought the moment Haer'Dalis had commenced in music. His only comments had been criticisms of the tuning of the bard's lute, though Anomen – with an acceptably passable ear for music – could hardly notice anything wrong.

But Haer'Dalis did not seem to be foolish enough to continue on with tunes for those who were hardly paying any attention to them, and it was not long before the tiefling bounded off the stage and swaggered towards them amongst scattered, unenthusiastic applause. He pulled up a stool and sat, smirking as if he had just won an award for his performance, then raised an eyebrow at them all. "What do you think, my friends?"

"You have improved, tiefling," Anomen replied calmly. "Your choice of songs is… more reasonable. And Harrian would be most glad to know you mentioned him only once, and not even by name."

"Songs of heroes are well received in places like this. They give hope," Haer'Dalis said idly, seeming more interested in the reception rather than the hope. "But mentioning that said hero happens to be a spawn of Bhaal would not be wise at these times. It has only caused outbursts in the past."

"Your voice is a little hoarse," Reynald commented quietly. "And I didn't particularly care for the third song. A poor rhythm. You should have words with whoever wrote that melody." He didn't look up from his ale.

Haer'Dalis blinked at him, and Anomen smirked as he remembered the third song had been one of the bard's own compositions, not played for some time before now. "Performing for the needy does not do wonders for any musician's throat." He glanced over at Imoen, who was tracing vague shapes in the head of her beer. "And your thoughts, my wildflower?"

Anomen resisted the grimace, and took a large swig of his ale.

Imoen glanced at him, smiling a little. If Anomen had been paying attention, he would have realised it was the calm, guarded smile she had often used on him months ago when trying to keep him at bay. "You're still as good as ever."

"Then, with your endorsement, there is no criticism I can receive that shall tell me my work is not good enough," Haer'Dalis declared firmly, giving her a deep nod that Anomen just _knew _would be a bow if he'd been standing.

"I'm not entirely sure I'm a music critic, Haer'Dalis," Imoen said wryly.

"Yes, Harrian mentioned your abilities," Reynald replied with a vague chuckle, getting a mock-glare for his troubles.

"He's not better than me. He can't talk," Imoen said with conviction, sipping her drink.

"I am sure you are simply without tuition, my wildflower. If you wished, I am sure I could lend you assistance in the thespian arts…"

Anomen stood abruptly at Haer'Dalis' offer, managing to slip an emotionless mask across his expression as eyes turned towards him. "I am… tired. I think sleep calls. It has been… a very long day indeed."

Without waiting for any replies, he turned and marched towards the stairs, managing not to thump his feet down on the shaky wooden floorboards as his irritation demanded he did. Not many people stayed at the inn these days, finding other places to lie low, and so they had had the choice of the rooms, certainly paying for the most expensive on offer. For once, Anomen had a room to himself instead of sharing with Harrian or Reynald, and was quite grateful as he reached his door and fiddled with the handle.

"Anomen?"

The door finally fell open, unnoticed as Anomen turned to face Imoen, who was heading down the corridor towards him with an intent expression on her face. "Are you alright?" she asked, with a real concern that surprised him. He wasn't sure why it was so odd, though.

"I… am simply tired," Anomen replied, and it wasn't really a lie. He looked at her slowly as she stepped up to him, and he gave a slight shrug. "The tiefling hasn't really changed. He can still wear me out."

"He can have that ability. Though it's good to find someone in this city who doesn't look like death… or has it looming over their shoulder." Imoen glanced away slightly, her blue eyes clouded with a concern for a moment.

"Anyone but him," Anomen murmured, staring at his boots before he took a step back, into his room. "I am surprised you are not this moment taking lessons on the lute from him. It would be a good distraction."

"The moment you left, Reynald offered," Imoen told him, and Anomen felt a surge of gratitude towards the fallen paladin. This must have shown on his face though, for she rolled her eyes with a mild irritation. "I don't _want _to learn the lute, you great lug. And I don't want us to take four steps back to how things were… before."

"No, matters are different now. You aren't hiding a great secret from me and actually talk to me," Anomen said quietly, but the blankness of his expression spoke volumes about the question he was really asking.

Another pause fell, during which Anomen stepped back into his room, wordlessly inviting Imoen inside. She stepped forward, closing the door behind her and leaning against it as her eyes closed, the thoughts forming behind her knotted brow.

"I want to be able to," Imoen said quietly. "And it's not that it's you that I've… held things in. I… I just… don't know how to say it." She inhaled deeply through her nose, then looked at him. "I've simply been used to the last few months of relative safety and freedom from dark thoughts."

"And now this situation has brought them all back. I understand your disorientation," Anomen nodded, not quite looking at her as he moved to the centre of the room and began to unbuckle his armour.

Imoen stepped forward silently to help him, and he didn't resist. "Harrian left me out. I'm not unused to that… not with the Bhaalspawn matters. It's always been _him_, and _his _destiny. Not mine. Just… I've realised now that he's living an old, dead habit. Because now it all affects me as well."

Anomen thought it best not to speak, almost feeling her need to pour her problems out. He instead focused on undoing the clasps of the armour sheathing his forearm, quietly willing to wait and listen.

"I'm a Child of Bhaal, and I'm recognising that it includes more than just bloodlusts and bad dreams. It brings a destiny with it as well. I don't think I'm ever going to be more than second fiddle to Harrian, but considering Harrian's probable role in this, that's still not a minor part to play." Imoen grimaced.

"I… is it petty if I want you to turn to me and not… _him_ with these worries?" Anomen asked, feeling a little petty as he shifted around to face her. "Is it petty if I want to be the shoulder for you, and _not _him?" He didn't need to specify the 'him'.

He came to a halt as Imoen stepped forwards, leaning up and pressing her lips against his lightly. "I'm not going to do that, Anomen. It's a decision which was made a long time ago. We're not going back to those days." She paused, smiling a very little at his expression. "But I _am_ pleased to see Haer'Dalis again. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't."

Anomen straightened up, pulling off the thick leather undergarment cushioning his armour. "I gathered as much," he said quietly, but not coldly.

His blank expression was clearly an open book for her as she reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. "He's my friend. Still. I know you don't like him, and I know you never did, even before we ever met. But I'm not fool enough to… I mean… it's Haer'Dalis. And he knows where I stand."

"That does not mean I trust him. And it is not even a lack of trust in you… it is a… he just irritates me. He did before, he did after, and he does now. A personality clash," Anomen replied, the words tumbling out a little. "I can only imagine the difficulty of your heritage," he continued at last, quietly. "And I know that it will take time before the true situation shows itself. But…" His hand came up to grip hers lightly. "I am here for you… my lady."

A mild smile tugged at her lips, tentative but present and genuine. To him, it resonated more deeply than even the broad and dazzling grins of delight. "I'll… be truthful. I don't know who I am, Anomen. Or what I'm doing, where I'm going."

"You're Imoen. Above your Bhaal blood, above your arcane skills. Above the lust for death, above any blind rages of pain. That is who you are. And that is who you always shall be. Of that, I am certain," Anomen said quietly. "And I care not for Haer'Dalis. Not truly, not at the end of things. When it truly matters, it is you I want… it is standing by your side in all things that I want."

"I'm not pushing you back any more," Imoen whispered, stepping closer to him and resting her head on his chest. As he wrapped his arms around her, savouring the proximity, he marvelled at how the bright and shiny Imoen the rest of the world saw could be so endearing, yet the more serious, contemplative one so vulnerable. He knew she was strong; would never doubt it, but he found it was at moments like this one her resolve would crumble and he found himself wanting, needing to support her.

"But I cannot fight all the world, or all the weight of destiny. And more's the pity… because I would, for you," Anomen murmured, kissing the top of her head lightly. "I have sworn to stand by Harrian's side for his fate, and I swear I shall stand with you. No matter what."

Imoen glanced up at him, her expression thoughtful. "You never swore such an unconditional oath to Harrian. If his taint grips him, you will… I know you will…" Her voice trailed off, as she didn't entirely need to finish the sentence. Her eyes dropped a little. "I hope I can trust you to do the same for me."

"I do not need to. For I swear that I shall do all in my power to aid you in the fight against the taint, and to keep you safe. I have shown that before." Anomen shifted slightly to grip her hands in his, marvelling at the large difference in size between his rough and callused hands and hers which, although hardened by battle and spellcasting, were still soft in comparison.

"I know. But this is more than battle." Imoen shook her head a little at last, and gave a slight scoff. "Listen to me… I'm talking as if it's already doomsday!" she managed a little chuckle, which was actually fairly real and managed to push away some of the darkness on the edge of both of their moods. "I'd… I'd rather not think about it. Not right now."

Anomen nodded firmly, smiling slightly. "I understand. Tomorrow, we shall find a way to confront Gromnir, and then carry on… but if we cannot smile and remember the happy moments of life, then we forget what it is we fight for."

"I'd like us to get out on the open road again soon. It… helps. I don't feel comfortable in cities like I used to, and in Saradush even less. Getting away from all of this will… help. Clear my mind," Imoen agreed.

Anomen's smile broadened a little. "Is there anything I can do to help you in the meantime, my lady?" he asked, perfectly sincere.

Imoen looked up, her eyes meeting his, and as she gazed at him for a long moment he could feel the mild smirk fading on his face. His breathing slowed, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and their surroundings began to fade away. "Just… kiss me?"

He did, as gently as possible, wanting to savour the sensation and allowing it to push all remnants of the doubts the conversation with Jaheira had conjured up. He cupped her face with his hands, feeling her arms slide around his neck, and he realised just how old and stale his jealousy of Haer'Dalis was. That had been… months ago. Times had changed. Feelings had shifted.

Then she pulled back reluctantly, looking him in the eye. "I should… go. It's a long day tomorrow. We'll all need to be alert. Awake. You know?" Her voice did hold a certain need to convince herself, and although the words made sense, Anomen still didn't agree as she stepped away, turning towards the door.

He grabbed her lightly by the wrist, smiling again. "Are you sure?"

Imoen glanced over at him, clearly mulling this one over. Then a playful grin played across her lips, and she gave a wry chuckle. "Well… no," she decided at last, stepping forward once more to kiss him again.


	14. Chapter XIV: Beating the Odds

**Chapter XIV: Beating the Odds**

Harrian poked his head around the door of his room at the inn, ironically for once respecting privacy when he had no real need to. The window was thrown open to air out the stuffiness of the room from the southern heat, and Jaheira stood before it, arms folded across her chest, seemingly oblivious to his presence. Rays of the dying sun had fought to make their way through gaps of the rooftops beyond the window, and the few shards that had made it through played streaks of fire in her hair. His feet felt like lead for a long moment as he tried to move forward, not wishing to disturb the scene; all he could do was watch her.

"Hey," he managed to say at last, stepping in and approaching her discreetly. "Are you alright? You… sort of fled back there." He regarded her thoughtfully, feeling the warming southern breeze in his hair as he stood behind her, and realised with a jolt that they had actually moved a hundred or so miles south of Suldanessellar, at least. More and more to unknown climes, with every further step they took on this quest. The north – the land around Baldur's Gate, which he had been intimately familiar with, where he had grown up – seemed like a dream now, and he wasn't even entirely sure it _hadn't _been a figment of his imagination. He didn't dare wonder if he'd see it again.

"It has been a long day," Jaheira acknowledged slowly, not resisting as his hands slipped around her waist and he rested his chin on her shoulder. Yet again, he marvelled at how well they fit together; the average human and the slender half-elf. "And I merely anticipate there being… longer still on the horizon, if matters continue as I think they will." Her voice was pensive, slightly dark.

"That's a prediction I won't argue with," Harrian replied dolefully, then sighed deeply. "I'm sorry. We said we wouldn't do this anymore." He paused, kissing her neck just beneath her ear, and contemplated the accuracy of this statement. No… he wasn't quite correct. "I said I wouldn't do this any more."

"I'm not angry with you," she said, distinctly to his surprise, and he straightened up slightly. "Just… just angry with the way fate seems to deny us anything but only the briefest of respites. There shall be no time we can lay down our arms for good, I fear."

"Matters do seem set to continue the same they ever did," Harrian agreed, shrugging a little. "And all we can do is allow ourselves to be pushed downstream, doing our best to avoid getting beaten to pulps by the rocks. We're good at that, though. We've been doing it for a while." He tried to inject some levity into his voice, failing miserably.

"It's not the rocks. It's where the river will drag us to," Jaheira twisted gently in his grip to face him, her hand coming up to lightly stroke his beard. Despite her words, he couldn't help but smile a little at her touch, and made a mental note to not anger her right then – a tug on the goatee was often a quick route to pain. "I cannot help but fear there will be a fork ahead," the druid continued, "taking us different ways."

"I'm not leaving you, Jaheira," Harrian said firmly, and raised his hands to grip hers. "We've seen how far I got without you in the past. It's not an idea that worked." He managed a wry smile that only slightly allayed her faint grimace.

"I'm not talking about a choice," she said quietly, and not without the faintest touch of irritation. For once, though, he knew it wasn't directed at him specifically. "I'm just afraid that the heightening of your destiny… the prophecies coming to pass… you may be led, by your fate, to a place where I cannot follow."

Harrian stared at her for a long moment, the intention and implication of her words sinking in slowly as he mulled them over. "My fate's not taking me anywhere I don't want to go. And anywhere without you is _not _worth it," he said with fierce conviction at last. "I'm still in control."

"And right now, every other Bhaalspawn is saying the same thing. When the actions of one affect all the others, _nobody _can be in total control." Jaheira sighed as he rested his forehead against hers, and she shifted a little closer in his gentle hold. "We are fighting for survival, and even if we win I know not how this will end."

She paused, uncertainty traced across her face entirely. A slight smile battled with a faint frown for superiority, until she gave up on deciding and leaned forward to kiss him delicately. "Even if we live at the end, I do not know if we win. But whatever happens, I swear I am here for you." Her fingers traced his jaw lightly.

"It's too early to know, now," Harrian insisted, catching her hand again and kissing the inside of her palm. "All we can do is…"

"Carry on as we ever did. I know. But after all of this time, all of these struggles, I can't… I _won't _lose you again. Not to your fate, not to your taint, not to death, and not to your own stupidity," Jaheira told him vehemently, shaking her head a little.

"Well, I intend to make sure it doesn't happen. I can't vote for my intelligence, mind, but I should do okay." Her gave her a wavering smile. "Being alive at the end of this _will _be living. I know, we're fighting for more than just our own survival here… the fate of Saradush is still lurking over our heads, and being very important right now. These Bhaalspawn armies on the march are still a concern. But we've fought powerful foes, and won before."

"These may be more powerful than anything we have already faced," Jaheira pointed out darkly, giving him an evaluating look.

"And _we're _more powerful than we were when we faced _them_. Fair's fair. The stakes are higher, but I'm not entirely sure that the odds are any worse than they ever were," Harrian pointed out, shrugging.

Jaheira stopped at last, a wry smile playing across her lips. "That isn't necessarily saying particularly much. We have… a habit of beating the odds. I simply hope destiny can keep us safe long enough to keep doing it."

"No. Just my incredible skills and charm will see us through," Harrian replied, smirking.

"If we have to rely on your charms, we're already beaten," Jaheira retorted, chuckling wryly. She kissed him quickly anyway.

"Alright, fine. Then I'll stab them until they die. Does that work as a more likely and successful strategy to see us through this?" he asked, his smirk broadening even more. "Well, we'll get Anomen to pummel things as well, of course, because stabbing alone won't do it, and then to balance things out…"

He stopped blathering as she kissed him again, and it proved to be quite a suitable cease to any rubbish he felt like spouting. But when they pulled apart, he gave her a long mock-glower. "Don't do that."

Jaheira grinned innocently at him. "Do what?"

"Interrupt me," Harrian retorted. "I don't like being interrupted."

"You looked as if you needed it," Jaheira said with an idle shrug. "After all, sometimes it gets to the stage where I must simply tune out and watch your jaw work aimlessly around some pointless…"

It was her turn to stop as he held her face in his hands and kissed her back firmly. The joint smirks that crossed their faces at this made the kiss break quickly, but the point was definitely made.

"See?" Harrian pointed out, looking triumphant. "Not everything has to be doom and gloom. And I'm still me. I'll always be me."

"More's the pity," Jaheira retorted, but nodded a little. "We never actually joined up on what we discovered in the city today. All of us… too busy lurking in our respective concerns around the table. Did you find any possible approaches to Gromnir?"

"We did," Harrian said, also nodding slowly. "We found our way to a temple… I forget which God…" He grimaced as she swatted him on the arm lightly. "But anyway, she said that there were really two ways to get into the keep, other than the main entrances. One of them is the sewers…"

"The sewers?" Jaheira repeated, looking less than pleased at that prospect.

"I know, I've had enough of sewers to last me a lifetime," Harrian agreed. "But if we could get a key and get down there, there's a passageway leading to one of the dungeons. The other way is through the crypts of the city. Also requiring a key."

"Crypts," Jaheira said, now feeling yet more like an echo. "Crypts, as in places where we're likely to find skeletons, ghouls, vampires, and all manner of undead monstrosities that will need to be wiped out?"

"Yeah. Considering vampires… I'd rather take my chances with sewer slime," Harrian told her. His slight tightening of his grip on her was subtle, but noticeable. "Regardless, I think we just have to take whatever route we can to gain access to. Perhaps talk to one of the city guards about getting a key to one of those places."

"I can see that conversation going well. 'Excuse me, we're a group lead by a Bhaalspawn, with another Bhaalspawn amongst us, and we want to break into your sewers or your crypts to kill your leader. Who pays your wages'." Jaheira rolled her eyes at him a little.

"Hey, I wouldn't say it like _that_. I'd not remind them Gromnir hired them in the first place, of course. But I doubt the populace at large is amazingly in love with Il-Khan as it is. Killing him might do them all a favour," Harrian said, wearing the expression on his face that plainly said he was rolling the idea around his head.

"We'll see what's most available tomorrow. If we stock up on holy water and stakes from the temple, vampires might not be so bad," Jaheira said, nodding a little.

"'Not so bad'?" Harrian echoed dryly.

She gave him a look. "Compared to sewer slime. At least they turn to dust and I don't need to shower for days after spending any time in a graveyard, crypt, or tomb. Lesser of two evils. And if we can wipe out vampires… it sounds like a better idea." She smiled a feral smile.

"Alright. We'll do some scouting out in the morning," Harrian agreed, nodding. "But if, by any chance, we find a viable alternative to sewer slime or vampires, I'm much more inclined to take it."

"I doubt anyone will complain overmuch about that," Jaheira agreed dryly.

"Well, they will. They all complain about anything. Imoen will mock me because she's bored and it's what she does, Anomen will make scathing comments because he's in a foul mood over Haer'Dalis being back, Reynald will make annoying, unnecessary and perfectly valid and logical criticisms of my plans, Sarevok will… well, I don't know what Sarevok will do yet, and you'll just…"

He stopped as, yet again, she interrupted him with a quick kiss.

"If you want to do that when everyone's making fun of me tomorrow, feel free," Harrian said at last, smirking a little. "It does get rather trying when everyone's mocking me any way they can, not to mention…"

This time, Jaheira stopped him with a raised hand to his lips, giving him a wry look. "You're just rambling now so that I'll kiss you, aren't you," she said, clearly resisting the urge to roll her eyes at him.

"Well, yes," Harrian conceded sheepishly. "Besides, you get all cute when you're annoyed with me – just before you decided to attempt to kill me, that is, and it's always worth…" Another kiss, though this one he pulled back from with his own scathing expression and mock-haughty glare. "Hey! That time I actually had something to say."

Jaheira raised an eyebrow at him, an evaluating look on her face. "Really? Was it important?" she asked dubiously.

Harrian considered this for a long moment. "I… well… no, not really. And I can't remember what I was saying anyway," he admitted, leaning down quickly for their lips to meet one final time. None of what they had discussed was forgotten, but they had both learnt long ago to take the moments they could get and savour them for as long as possible, just in case their time did not last forever.

Though they would fight to make it so.


	15. Chapter XV: Ships in a Night

**Chapter XV: Ships in a Night**

Reynald de Chatillon was rather weary of this town, and he had only just arrived. Although he had a certain fondness for the wilderness, he was, at heart, an urban dweller. But Saradush was saturated with the depression and pain of the siege, and he did not need any aid from Torm to sense the hopelessness of the cause.

They could only pray, he reasoned, that they could defeat Gromnir, or make the mad general see reason. Reynald fervently hoped it would be the latter; despite months of a break from bloodshed and war, both were ingrained so firmly in his mind that any chance to avoid either was to be seized if all possible. If nothing else, Gromnir could make a powerful ally with his army and his Bhaal blood… and if he fell, his soldiers, clearly only controlled by the iron will of a strong fist, were bound to fall into more disarray and undisciplined behaviour than currently gripped them. From the accounts he had heard all evening from serving girls and barflies, the soldiers had already reduced themselves to little more than petty thugs. No, if bloodshed could be avoided, it would be best for them all.

Reynald knew he was not a warrior at heart. He had joined the Order because he had been the youngest of a moderate nobleman's four sons, which had left him with few choices in life. His eldest brother was married and had inherited all of his father's wealth, as was expected of the first son. One other was a clergyman in the temple of Tyr, a quiet man living a life of piety and, well, frugality. Respectable, but having made his own way in the world. The third had been more of a firebrand, and had set off at the age of eighteen to become an adventurer, to make his own fortune. He had died four years later facing, of all things, a lair of ogres. If one was not the eldest son, one had to make do with a pitiful inheritance if the father's will so allowed it, and in general it was a necessity to become completely self-sufficient. The clergy was normal. Adventuring was… less respectable, especially when one was dead, and the army was a more likely alternative. It was one Reynald had considered, no less.

But as a man who had always considered himself to be an artist at heart, his intense naivety had set him down this path. Stories of knights in shining armour, of paladins pure and true, had led him to the Most Noble Order of the Radiant Heart, right in his home city of Athkatla. His belief in Torm had been true and firm, his devotion to the ideals of the Order all that was expected, he had found himself satisfied in his life… and yet there had always been a certain emptiness within him, a longing for something unknown that had eaten away at his heart. He had been seeking something his whole life, and what it was he had never been sure.

When he'd found Celestine, he'd been sure it was her. Not only had she filled him with a happiness in life, she had filled him with a desire to do yet more good in his work for the Order; she had given him a reason to want to uphold all that was good in the world. Once she'd shown her true colours, and he'd torn the Order away from himself, falling in with Anarg and the other brutish Fallen Paladins, the emptiness had returned, ten times stronger, and refused to be dismissed. His work with Harrian had aided that distinctively; saving Suldanessellar and defeating the cult of vampires had eased his soul, and seemed to have won him Torm's… well, not Torm's forgiveness, but certainly a sort of non-condemnation that was working for the moment. Though his God… his _former _God… had not spoken to him in any way since before he had met Celestine. It had only been in the smallest of ways; the sensing of a certain presence, the certain _knowledge _of what cause to take, though it had in no ways been a constant in his worship – merely, he felt, when he needed the guidance and Torm agreed. But every time since Reynald had sat down to pray, there had been nothing but a cold emptiness. There had never been that before; not even when Torm had not made himself known. Before, there had at least been _peace_.

Now, there was a void.

But Reynald was jerked out of his reverie by a few raised voices wafting across the tavern, and he set down the lute of Haer'Dalis's that he'd been strumming and tuning idly to half-stand and look around to detect the source. He'd hardly been paying attention to his surroundings lately; Haer'Dalis had flittered off somewhere, as had Sarevok, and to be fair he didn't care overmuch where they'd gone. But it seemed that, in his introspection, he'd missed out a certain shift in the atmosphere of the inn.

As he'd expected, it was two Il-Khan soldiers responsible for the noise, standing above a table in the corner of the tavern, just over by Reynald's left. He couldn't quite see what they were doing, but from the way other patrons shifted and turned their backs and the waitresses hurried away rapidly, it was clearly something most people didn't want to get involved in.

Reynald stood up, wishing he was better prepared for any violent encounters. His armour was upstairs in his room, and the best he had for protection was a thin shirt and long waistcoat. Granted, the Blade of Searing hung at his side from the baldric slung across his chest – the arrangement was a little too long for a bastard sword, but he coped – yet he still felt somewhat defenceless.

Regardless, the Fallen Paladin did not hesitate as he strode calmly across the room towards the two Il-Khan soldiers, and lay a hand on the shoulder of either one in a friendly manner upon arrival. "Is there anything I can help you boys with?" he offered brightly.

As the words passed his lips, it took him hardly any time at all to evaluate the situation. The two armoured soldiers had picked out a young woman – still a girl, really – for harassment, and although she didn't seem as if they were walking all over her, the desire to be somewhere else was plain to see on her face.

"Nothing at all, mate. I suggest you just clear off and leave us alone," one of the guards said flatly, shrugging off Reynald's gloved grip on his shoulder.

Reynald raised an eyebrow, assuming an innocent and vaguely clueless expression as he glanced between the two burly soldiers, his blue eyes finally settling on the girl in a reassuring manner. "Are you disturbing this young lady in any manner?" he asked, putting all of the pompousness a former paladin could muster into his voice – and that was quite a lot of pompousness. He blinked at the girl. "Are these gentlemen disturbing you, my lady?"

"I…"

The girl didn't manage to finish her sentence as one of the soldiers tried to push him roughly back, but to little avail. The man was shorter than Reynald, as most people were, though built more solidly than the slightly lanky fallen paladin.

"Clear off, _mate_," the soldier repeated, his face twisting into a slight snarl. "We don't need you poking into our business. Go back to strumming that lute of yours, you poxy bard…"

Reynald couldn't help but grin at this. Of course; all he'd done upon arriving at the tavern was sit, criticise Haer'Dalis and play with the lute. His sword didn't appear particularly special when still in its scabbard, and thus… thus… these two apes thought he was a simple bard! He would have laughed were the situation not so serious.

"My good men, it is clear that this lady does not want you present. Common decency and any etiquettes of soldiery that you two may claim to follow will insist that you leave her alone when she has asked you to. I think your presence is unwanted, so I bid you to leave… immediately." Reynald was tempted to inject a threatening tone into his voice, but knew it would not work. Regardless, he had a desire to lure these two oafs into a false sense of security.

"You can't talk to us like that!" the other soldier retorted, one hand going down to the longsword hanging off his belt. "We work for Gromnir! _We're _the ones who run this town, not petty little rhymesters like you!"

"Think we should teach him a lesson?" his companion asked, pulling a wicked-looking mace. Neither of them appeared to hold any fear for Reynald's abilities, something which only amused the fallen paladin yet further.

It seemed the girl they were harassing had no great faith in her apparent saviour, either, for she stood up, hands raised. "No, no… this isn't necessary; good sir, please leave…" But the pleading and unconvincing tone of her voice clearly suggested she just didn't want to see a poor man intervening get gutted on her behalf; not out of any _true _desire for a saviour to walk away.

"It's necessary," Reynald replied, his voice and expression now cold, and he pulled out the Blade of Searing. The blue-ish blade shone even in the dim light of the tavern, shimmering strangely, and there was a moment's hesitation from the two soldiers as they regarded him. "Are you going to teach me a lesson, then?" he challenged.

The first soldier swung his longsword at him in a sloppy manner that Reynald blocked easily, stepping back to give himself a little more room as he grasped his weapon in a two-handed grip. The soldier's sword was knocked aside, and Reynald turned quickly to meet the oncoming mace from the second soldier, though he shifted his defence to hack at the haft of the weapon. Although a thick metal, the enchanted steel of the Blade of Searing brought the head of the mace off instantly.

Reynald smirked at the man. "You might want to head down to the armoury to have that one looked at," he told him slowly, before moving to block the second attack from the swordsman soldier. He parried the blows briefly before retaliating with his own attack, falling into a simple one-two-three pattern of swordsmanship that any wet-behind-the-ears paladin would have been taught to counter. Then he locked blades with the soldier for a brief second, before securing his grip, pushing the other man's hold into a more insecure one with his wrists slightly twisted, then twirled his own blade to disarm the soldier quickly.

He stepped back, placing one boot on the fallen sword, and regarded the two soldiers calmly. "Do you have any more weapons here? Or do you wish to carry this on by hand? I am always prepared for a round of fisticuffs."

The two soldiers looked at each other, the swordsman massaging his wrist and muttering under his breath. Then, giving Reynald the dirtiest looks they could summon, they hurried off, disappearing into the depths of the now-silent crowd of the tavern. All eyes were turned towards the fallen paladin.

Reynald nodded at them, sheathing his sword calmly. "Drink up. I'm not sure they'll be coming back any time soon," he said calmly to the crowd, smiling a little before he turned to face the girl the soldiers had left behind. "Are you alright?" he asked, his expression open and veritably concerned.

"I… yes… thank you." The young woman stood up and stepped away from her table, looking blankly at the sword on the ground and the remnants of the one soldier's mace. "That was… an impressive display for a bard."

"I am no bard. One does not need to be a bard to be able to play a lute or know when a musical performance is utterly dire," Reynald told her gently, stepping back a little bit and adjusting his baldric.

"Then… what are you?" the girl asked innocently, looking up at him, and for the first time he got a good look at her. Her hair was dark, her skin slightly pale, and she held herself with a bearing that was almost regal. It was odd that one such as she would spend time in such a seedy tavern without accompaniment.

Reynald shifted uncomfortably. "I am… just a man who knows how to use a sword," he said simply. "Are you staying here at the inn, my good lady, or do you live nearby and wish to be escorted home? I am happy to oblige."

The girl smiled slightly at him, showing a display of delicate pearly-white teeth. "I would… appreciate that, good sir. The times in Saradush are dangerous indeed. Even for those who would think themselves able to deal with the worst of encounters."


	16. Chapter XVI: Soul Mates

**Chapter XVI: Soul Mates**

"Sir? Excuse m-me? Sir?"

Sarevok was already fed up with life, and it was only the end of his first full day of coming back from the dead. Over a year of torment in the Abyss had left him with nothing but a resolve to return to his existence, to continue with what he had started, and when he'd found himself dumped in Bhaal's plane with that annoying imp that had just hidden from the party he'd rather thought he'd succeeded. And, technically speaking, he had.

It was just that he'd rather be a hundred miles away, back up in the north, continuing to seize control of Baldur's Gate than sitting in this pathetic town gripped by fear, led by a madman and besieged by a fool. Saradush was not likely to fall soon; Sarevok could tell. It would take a serious surge forward by Yaga-Shura's forces for that to happen, and from the walking he'd done about the city, taking in the sights and sounds and observing the guards and defences, this did not look as if it was about to happen soon. Gromnir might have been holing himself up in his keep without looking to the outside world, but he had a lieutenant who was holding the city defences together remarkably.

And here they were to try and save the city. Sarevok couldn't entirely see why. Of course, Harrian hunting down Gromnir sounded like an excellent idea; as another Bhaalspawn, the half-Orc could only be a threat to the party. But the fool Corias meant to _reason _with the insane general, for the good of the city! In Sarevok's opinion, their party leader would do best to kill Gromnir, seize control of the city himself, and lead a vicious counter-attack. After all, Yaga-Shura would have to be killed by some means himself, and Sarevok didn't see how it might happen if they didn't have an army, same as the Fire Giant had.

But Sarevok had to admit he was suspicious of this Melissan woman. Guardian of Bhaalspawn? Familiar with Harrian and himself by sight? Such people did not exist and operate out of a sheer benevolence. To his credit, Harrian had not seemed to be completely duped by her, but Sarevok intended to keep a close eye on the suspicious woman. He did not trust the benevolence of these weak-hearted fools that were his companions.

That was one reason he had left the Inn during that ridiculous bard's appalling performance. In the middle of serious times, when they should have been planning their attack upon the keep, they had been concerned about personal matters. The druid was clearly discontented with Harrian, the cleric hovering with uncertainty about Imoen, and the fallen paladin seemed to be the only one with any grip on the present, yet clearly tormented by his own thoughts. Harrian should have cracked some skulls together and led with a much heavier hand than he did, forcing the party into unison instead of petty squabbling. There was more afoot than their own personal matters. Even Imoen clearly had her doubts about his leadership, though…

Yes, little Imoen. The little sister everyone overlooked, save that sickening cleric who failed to fathom her true depths. Harrian saw her as still naïve and innocent, the druid seemed to not have any concern about taint left for anyone but her lover, and the fallen knight clearly did not understand these things. Nobody saw.

Except for Sarevok. He had not expected to receive such a clear picture of the person whose soul he took a part of to return to life. He had expected it to be a small spark to re-ignite the fires of his own, disappearing mortality. He had thought the taint would be enough to summon whatever was left of his life, and truly, it had been. He had just not anticipated there being anything more.

He didn't understand how he'd overlooked Imoen in his search for Harrian all that time ago, though. It was not impossible that she had overshadowed him, and he, with his vendetta against Gorion and arrogant belief that no mere innkeeper would be the guardian of a great Child of Bhaal – that such a Bhaalspawn could only be the ward of one like the sage Gorion – had been convinced Harrian was the target.

Sarevok was getting mildly concerned for Imoen, and that wasn't something he was exactly used to. Compassion was not his forte. But his mortal body, unable to retrieve any of the trace of Bhaal, had taken a small part of Imoen's untainted soul. And he wasn't overly sure there was plenty of that to go around.

Harrian was powerful, yes. But he'd been standing next to another Bhaalspawn who'd been overlooked so many times by everyone except the mage Irenicus for so long that it was possible everyone had missed a rather large piece of the puzzle.

He'd been contemplating this all day, and watching his sister. How she had reacted to the fight against the city guards. How she had kept both the cleric and the ridiculous bard at arm's length. How she watched the others in the tavern, and about the streets. Harrian had been oblivious, but Imoen hadn't, and Sarevok had been able to pick it up by watching her. She wasn't just seeing the people, seeing their pain, and her heart wasn't just bleeding for them like their weak-willed leader's did. She could see which was Bhaalspawn and which wasn't, in this city that was meant to be a 'haven' for the Children.

And all day, Sarevok had been hearing something inside his head. Something familiar and yet strange at the same time. A whisper… a voice, promising blood and pain and fulfilment with it too. He had known this was impossible. His taint was gone; he was a 'simple' mortal man. Bhaal would no longer say anything to him. And no, the words were not addressed to him, they had no bearing on what was happening at any given moment. Not to him, anyway.

He could hear the voice of Bhaal inside Imoen's head. And he thought it was going to drive him insane before he could comprehend how, why, or what it meant. That was the other reason why he'd fled the tavern. He needed to be alone with… someone else's thoughts.

But it seemed solitude was impossible, if the harlot addressing him was anything to come by.

"Sir?"

No, he wasn't going to be able to ignore her. Sarevok stopped and sighed heavily, turning to face the woman, petite and light-haired but looking far too worn, haggard, and plain scared to be even vaguely appealing to him. "What?" he asked irritably.

"You, euh… looking for some company for the night?" the woman asked, in a mixture of nerves and attempted seductiveness that really didn't work.

Sarevok placed his hands on his hips and allowed his eyes to rove up and down her, impassive even as she squirmed slightly under his gaze. Then he looked at her face with a raised eyebrow. "You have never done this before, have you," he said tiredly. No, he wasn't in the mood for something this pathetic.

"No, sir… I'm not… not by trade…" The woman's voice trailed off, and Sarevok let out a noise of irritation as he turned away to walk off. But the woman grabbed him by the forearm, withdrawing quickly as he gave her a thunderous look, and clasped her hands together earnestly. "Please, sir, listen to me… I know, I know, you're with the heroes that just arrived… you're one of them."

Sarevok raised an eyebrow. "Heroes?" he asked dubiously.

"Everyone knows about it, sir. I saw you fighting the guards this morning. Nobody's stood up for us townsfolk like that before. They all run it like they're in charge… Gromnir… Gromnir rules with an iron fist, sir, kills who he likes, like my parents…" The woman – more a girl, he saw now, as she grew even more frightened and earnest – stepped away, eyes large and round.

"We weren't standing up for you; they attacked us," Sarevok pointed out. "And how Gromnir rules or whom he kills are not my concern. The concern of myself and the party is simply to remove him from power. For our own reasons; we are no benevolent heroes," he said gruffly.

The girl's eyes, if at all possible, grew larger and rounder. "That's… that's all we want, sir… Just to be rid of him… and for the siege to fall." She stepped forward, grabbing him by the wrist. "It's impossible to get into his keep from the front, sir. But there's a way in through the crypts under the city. You just need a key to get in; that'll bring you up by the prisons on the lower levels."

"Crypts?" Sarevok asked slowly as he tugged on his hand lightly, but it seemed the girl had a surprisingly strong grip born of desperation.

"This is the key to get you in, sir," she continued, pushing something long and metallic into his hand and letting go. "Like I said, it'll let you through to the keep… through to Gromnir. We just want to be free of him. They say you're heroes… they say you saved an elven city."

"I did not." Sarevok groaned as the girl looked as if she might burst into tears. He had no patience for this. "My… comrades did, though. And I'm sure we shall find this key most useful," he continued sincerely.

"They say you'll save us from Gromnir _and _Yaga-Shura… lift the siege," the girl continued.

"Do not ask for too much," Sarevok mumbled, glowering at her now. "Yes. Thank you, girl. It is my intention that we slay Gromnir, at least. This shall be most useful. Now begone!" he snapped, turning on his heel and striding onwards, down the street and back towards the inn. He had hardly noticed that, at some point during the conversation, the voice at the back of his mind was gone.

It seemed Imoen had found something that subdued Bhaal, for a time. He only hoped it wasn't that mewling cleric of hers.


	17. Chapter XVII: Lost and Found

**Chapter XVII: Lost and Found**

Imoen stirred slightly as a few rays of the morning sun snuck in through a tiny gap in the shutters on the window, unsurprisingly landing quite heavily on her face, as all rays of light did when someone was sleeping comfortably.

She let out a vague noise of frustration before moving, shifting in a little closer to the side of Anomen's slumbering form, and tried to find oblivious rest again. But it was no good; after a few more minutes spent with her eyes screwed shut and attempting to will the world away, she had to concede defeat. She was awake.

Imoen sat up slightly, propping her chin up in her hand, and regarded the sleeping shape of Anomen for a few long moments. This had been the first night in a week where nightmares hadn't been plaguing her, and she was grateful for that… and other things.

Her hand ran lazily yet lightly up his well-muscled chest, only half-covered by the rumpled covers of the bed, then up further before she lightly caressed his beard. Despite his appearance of sleeping, she would have sworn he'd been awake from the sudden, slight smile that tugged at his lips at the moment of touch.

"'Morning," she greeted him quietly, leaning down to place a kiss lightly on those smiling lips. "I thought you were still asleep."

"You woke me," Anomen lied poorly, shifting up a little to prop himself against the cushions resting by the headboard. "Your delicate touch is enough to lift me from the deepest of slumbers, and –"

He stopped as she kissed him again, equally lightly, pulling back before he could respond fully, and giving him that secret, slight smile which he liked to think was only for him. The bright grin that lit up a room warmed his heart, and the hearts of everyone else who saw it. The quiet smile warmed his soul.

"…and you are a tease, my lady," Anomen decided at last, grabbing her by the hand quickly. "The best sort, of course, but a tease, nonetheless…" His voice trailed off, and a touch of sobriety entered his expression as he regarded her for a few longer moments. "You slept well, I assume?"

"Better than I have in a while," Imoen told him truthfully. "None of the nightmares. Just… normal sleep."

Anomen opened his mouth to reply, but it seemed that the words would be lost forever as an insistent hammering was suddenly heard, coming from the door. They both glanced in its direction, automatically startled, and gaped for a second before Harrian's voice filtered through the solid oak.

"Anomen! Come on, get up, you great lug. We need to get moving – it's Reynald, he's… he's gone missing. His equipment's here, but there's no sign of him. We need to get hunting, so… _get up_!"

Imoen threw Anomen a dry, yet faintly concerned look. "I'll go," she decided at last, sliding out of bed and spending a few short seconds hunting for her tunic, which had been thrown haphazardly onto the floor in all the excitement of the previous night. She pulled it on and headed over to the door, opening it up to show a surprised Harrian, fist upraised to knock again.

"Reynald's gone?" she asked.

Harrian stared at her for a short moment, then shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "Yes. His room hasn't been slept in, his equipment's still here. It seems the last person to see him was Sarevok, who saw him walking the streets with some woman."

"Then why all the hubbub?" Imoen asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sounds pretty clear what's going on here. Can't we give the poor guy some privacy?" She smirked at him, and Harrian blushed slightly at the none-too-subtle hint.

But the Bhaalspawn rogue shifted before speaking again, and his voice was a shade stronger. "It would be, if she was actually a woman. Uh… I've been talking to some of the locals, including the bartender. They don't really know who it was he was with. They haven't seen her around before. And, erm, one mad old woman was mumbling about vampires."

Anomen sat up in bed a little, and Harrian only gave him a cursory glance. "Vampires?"

Harrian nodded. "Jaheira's getting some undead vibes from downstairs, but we think it's best we head for the crypt as soon as possible. Hopefully before Reynald gets turned into a vampiric snack, and as we know… daylight's better."

Imoen's face turned ashen. "They have one of our own," she mumbled under her breath, eyes downcast.

"And we're going to get him _back_," Harrian said strongly, nodding at her. "Anyway, you two get kitted up and downstairs as soon as possible. The whole shebang. We're going to show these creatures of the night that you don't mess with _this _party."

Imoen closed the door behind him as Harrian went, then slowly turned around to face Anomen to find him already getting dressed. "This is bad," she mumbled, also heading off towards her pile of clothes. Most of her equipment was in her own room, still.

"Harrian's right. We'll get him back. And Reynald is competent enough to deal with some vampires… even if he sauntered into their lair seemingly of his own accord," Anomen told her firmly. "I had just not thought him to be so blinded by a pretty face. I thought him wiser than most of us."

Imoen chuckled wryly. "Wisdom can often fly out of the window in certain circumstances. I wouldn't be worried, just… look, if it were you, you can probably blow them up with your prayers to Helm at this stage," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Reynald… Torm's stripped him of all of those powers of protection he might not be used to… not being able to rely on."

Anomen looked at her levelly, then made a face. "Then we should hurry."

They dressed in silence, and Imoen left quickly to grab her own gear from her room and suit up. The elven chain jingled quietly when she finally stepped down the stairs of the inn to the common room, but she was definitely ready; the Cutthroat shortsword sheathed by her side, the Tuigan Bow strapped to her back with her quiver of lightly enchanted arrows. Prepared for anything.

It seemed the others were equally kitted for action, too. Harrian's shadow dragon leathers positively _gleamed _in the sunlight, and Jaheira's twin scimitars were strapped to the back of her enchanted chainmail for once, shining under the same rays of the sun. Anomen lurked in a corner, swinging the Flail of Ages in an impatient manner, and Sarevok…

…was standing at the foot of the stairs for her to almost run into him as she stepped down to join the party. The tall former Bhaalspawn looked down at her, golden eyes – that shade of glowing molten gold so similar to Harrian's – fixed on her unwaveringly.

"Glad you could join us, little sister. You slept well, I trust?" Sarevok said gruffly – though it was hard to tell with his voice.

Whether or not this was a gibe, Imoen wasn't sure. She wasn't going to give him the benefit of it, either way, and so merely shrugged and stepped onwards without giving him a second glance. She could also practically _hear_ Anomen stiffening. "I slept well enough," she said calmly.

"Good. Nightmares can wreak havoc on even the best of us," Sarevok said quietly, and Imoen faltered in her step before giving him a quizzical look over her shoulder. The great warrior's expression was quite unreadable.

Harrian coughed quietly, and they all glanced at him, happy for the interruption. "It's time we got going. Sarevok, you said that girl gave you a key to the crypts? Do you have it?" he asked, looking at him.

Sarevok nodded stiffly, turning his gaze away from Imoen and tossing the key to Harrian, who caught it deftly. "Here, brother."

"Why would an attempted courtesan have the key to the crypts underneath the keep of the city's ruler?" Jaheira asked sceptically, eyeing Sarevok with distinct distrust. "And just happen to give it to you? Rather… convenient."

"Would you rather doubt me and find some other way to rescue the dark knight? It is odd, I know. But best not to question such a useful step forward. The girl was no threat to us; she was too scared to be," Sarevok muttered.

"We don't have time to waste quibbling over all this," Harrian pointed out with mild frustration. "We had just best… Imoen, why are you bringing Boo with you?"

"Squeak?"

Boo was, indeed, perched on Imoen's shoulder, and she gave Harrian a cool, dry glance. "What? He was hungry, so I fed him, and seemed to insist on tagging along. He survived plenty of fights with Minsc; I think he'll get by sitting at the back with little old me."

Harrian blinked at her for a second, then shook his head. "I… alright, fine. Let's just go. Anomen, I hope you have plenty of spells ready to deal with the undead. Or, at least, Helm's ready to listen to you."

"Helm is, I hope, always ready to listen to me," Anomen said quietly, nodding. "We should go."

"One moment, my crows!" a voice called out from the stairs, and Imoen heard Anomen and Sarevok's joint groans of frustration. "I cannot allow you to walk into a pit of fiendish vampires without my assistance?"

"Why not? You've done it before," Anomen mumbled bitterly under his breath.

Haer'Dalis gave him only the briefest of brief and scathing glances. "I know a little something of the passages around the city. The crypts are very old yet rather famous for housing some particularly intriguing vampires. I have a map from an old book of the history of Saradush." The bard held up a scrap of paper that Harrian looked at as if it might explode. "Besides, you know of my use in battle."

Harrian glanced at Haer'Dalis for a long moment, before sighing slightly and nodding. Anomen looked completely outraged, Sarevok rather worn, Jaheira not particularly enthusiastic, but Imoen managed to keep her expression plain. Now was not the time. Besides… Haer'Dalis _did _have his uses…


	18. Chapter XVIII: Unpleasant Awakenings

**Chapter XVIII: Unpleasant Awakenings**

Reynald de Chatillon stirred groggily, his limbs feeling sluggish and his head as if it had been wrapped up in a bottle of the south's finest whiskey. But as tried to look around, he wondered if he had actually opened his eyes, and raised a hand to his face.

He suddenly realised that a part of the dull ache had to be from what would doubtless be a tremendous bruise on his right cheek, and as he checked the sore spot on the back of his head, he felt a bump already emerging, along with a touch of dried blood. Painful, but clearly designed for unconsciousness, not distinct pain or damage.

Reynald swung his legs over the side of the low bench he was sprawled on, and tried to sit up. His head swam painfully, and the throbbing in his eyes suggested that his vision would be swimming before him if he could actually see. But he did his best to ignore the ache, and reached out with his hands to see if he could feel anything more about his surroundings. All he could touch within arms' length were stone walls.

_Torm… are you listening?_ Reynald did his best to reach out, as he had done so many times before. But once again, there was nothing but the cold emptiness.

_Of course not. That would require you to bestow your benevolence upon a sinner such as myself. You will not grant me eyes to see, or a clarity of mind to think my way out of this. You are, as you have always been, silent. Even when I, once a servant of yours, need you_.

But that was the crux of the matter. _Once _a servant of Torm, _once _a paladin. No more. No. Torm owed him nothing, except death. And it was only by his benevolence that allowed him to breathe further and… if not serve righteousness, continue to fight evil.

_You are not a shining example of good and purity anymore, Reynald. You simply **kill**. And kill the right people._

He had a feeling he'd have to put that new duty to good use in a few moments, however. Because he didn't have the slightest idea where in the Hells he'd just gone and landed himself, other than darkness.

The previous night was rather fuzzy to him. He could remember the encounter with the Il-Khan soldiers, remembered humiliating but not killing them. And he remembered… remembered the girl. Though her name was something he failed to recall at that particular moment. He wasn't sure if it was the pain in his head or not.

She might have been working for Il-Khan, he considered. An agent, knowing Harrian was in Saradush and planning to confront Gromnir. So they must have seized him, lured him into a trap and dragged him away to be used as a hostage, or bait for a trap. It had to be a part of some clever, elaborate ruse to use him as a pawn in the game of the Five, of the continuing fate of the Bhaalspawn and the weaving, winding ways of the Prophecy…

He raised his hand to scratch his neck, and stopped as he felt the slight moisture there. His stomach dropped as his other hand came up, searching, and finally finding what he really hadn't wanted to know was there. Two pin-prick holes in the side of his neck, roughly at the distance of a small human's canine teeth.

Vampires. And… he wasn't dead.

Realisation dawned on him, and with it came indignant outrage. He was being used as _food_! And not even particularly worthwhile food at that, because he was still alive – no, he was being _kept _to be _snacked _on by peckish vampires! Him! Reynald de Chatillon, former paladin of Torm, the knight who had commanded a hundred men in the Tethyr campaign against the Orcs and supremely smashed them with minimal casualties! He, who had won himself a place in the Order's chronicles at the highest standard that could be expected for any knight not of the most senior levels. He, who had placed the greatest fear into the hearts of villains and innocents alike, who had fought with demons, devils, evil archmages and great dragons!

He, Reynald de Chatillon, was being kept alive to serve as food for a bunch of poxy vampires. And he wasn't going to stand for it.

His head was clear when the door swung open slowly, an hour later. He was lying back down on the bunk, eyes closed, breathing heavily in what wasn't quite a snore but still gave the semblance of slumber. And so, when footsteps padded over towards him, light as a summer's breeze, he knew that whoever was approaching him thought he would still be unconscious.

As such, when a hand came down towards him to grab him by the neck once more – though how he knew this, he wasn't sure, other than because of a certain sense that had not failed him in the past – his own hand shot out to grip the assailant by the wrist. His knee came up in a swift, painful jerk to connect solidly with the skull of the female vampire bending over him, and as he sat up, his free hand reached into his tunic to pull out the holy symbol of Torm he still wore. The vampires would not have been able to remove it, but the chain was long enough for the burning righteousness to be simply avoided.

It could not be evaded right now, however, and although Torm might have forsaken Reynald himself, His fury had certainly not fled from the vampires. Reynald unorthodoxly clouted the vampire around the skull with it to send the beast reeling before he lifted the chain over his head, and brandished it before him once more. The vampire took only a second to lunge forward, teeth bared, and by then, Reynald was already prepared. Without even thinking about it, he raised the symbol and pushed forwards himself, aiming at the first spot of the vampire that presented itself.

The beast let out an unholy noise and withdrew with a hiss, flailing wildly and clawing at its jaws where Reynald had shoved the holy symbol. The vampire began to froth at the mouth, clearly not wanting to touch the symbol with its hands but still being burnt by the thing being in its mouth.

Then it seemed to give up, slumping against the wall and sliding to the floor, just as Reynald reached out to grab back his symbol. The creature collapsed on the hard stone floor but made no effort to rise again, twitching slightly as it lay there.

It was only then that it dawned on Reynald that he still couldn't see… and though there was light visible through the doorway (if one defined 'light' as a shade less darkness than what one was currently experiencing) it still wasn't quite penetration the obsidian black of the cell in which he stood.

Yet it was quite clear to him where he stood; the crypts, those expansive tombs of the dead reaching under the city, even deeper than the sewer system. Only rumoured to be the homes of vampires… and now, Reynald supposed, there was no more doubt in those tales, at least to him.

His foot hit something as he headed towards it, and he bent down instinctively to pick it up. His hand hit leather first, and then as he reached further, cool metal. Reynald smiled thinly in the gloom as he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the Blade of Searing. Clearly, when one thought a toy and a snack was going to be unconscious for most of the time, it was not necessary to secure the weapons elsewhere. The vampires had underestimated him. His mother had always told him not to play with his food.

He tried to make his footsteps light as he stepped through the open doorway, securing the baldric around his shoulder and unsheathing his sword. He knew he was at a disadvantage; unable to see in the dark, and though the gloom of the corridor was less than the absolute black of his cell, he could still have done with a touch more illumination. If only to see his hand in front of his face.

The door at the end of the corridor creaked as he pushed it open lightly, and although Reynald grimaced, he realised that the vampires would probably detect him no matter how silent or invisible he tried to be. There were certain matters where he _couldn't _beat the undead. And, as such, he had best simply endeavour to level the playing field.

The door had lead to a small room which looked like it had once been an entrance to the outside world, though the doorway at the top of a small flight of stairs was blocked with fallen rubble. The room was square and rather claustrophobic, and hardly of note to anyone. Two more doors greeted him on opposite walls, and a table stood in the centre. Reynald's gaze settled upon the ancient tinderbox on the table, and one would have thought, by the way his eyes lit up, the entire room would have been illuminated.

A few minutes later, Reynald was proceeding down one of the other corridors. One of his sleeves was gone, and he held the part of the remnants of the wooden table in his left hand, a glowing torch of flame that made him feel a lot less blind than he had been before. Shoved into his belt as another part of the remains of the table – a long, sharp, thick splinter of wood.

He had never trained as a hunter of the undead in his time at the Order. His duties had been more in dealing with large threats that the Order dealt with by sending entire troops of knights, and he had been a most successful leader of men. He had many campaigns to his name, and many kills in terms of members of Orc hordes. But he had not adventured like he did with Harrian since his days as a knight errant, and his training in the Order had left him singularly unprepared for this sort of situation. He had coped so far, managed to conduct himself with a reasonable skill and competence. Simply, right then, he rather wished he had listened a little bit more to the lectures given by the more senior knights in the Order on the proper handling of the undead.

He was alone. It was just him, with what skills he had, and the torch in his hand lighting the way ahead. And he was not wholly inexperienced at battling vampires… his knowledge came from more than just the attack on Bodhi's cult, too.

The light from the torch played strange shadows on the walls, jerking and jittering in the corner of his eye enough to make him jump every few seconds – or enough to make a lesser man run screaming. But Reynald was no strangers to the shadows cast by the light in dark places.

He had been asked, once, when a youth, why he had joined the Order. It would have been too simply to tell his childhood tutor that he simply needed a job and the paladins had taken him in – and although Reynald had never quite found his place, his purpose in life with the Radiant Heart, he was not so mercenary as to merely view them as work for him. No… the words of one of his knight instructors had come back to him, and although he hadn't understood or believed them at the time, he comprehended their full meaning now.

"_My boy… we will be asked many times why we put ourselves in the line of danger for those we do not know. We will be asked many times why we take it upon ourselves to chase evil from this earth. And we will be asked many times why we walk in so much darkness in our lives._

"_We walk in darkness because we are the light of righteousness. Some would say that light belongs with light, and that we are debasing ourselves with our time in the shadows. But those who say that would be fools. If light walks amongst the light, then there is no contribution; if there are no shadows, what is the point in bringing one more candle? But it is our duty to bring the torch to the darkness, for there it makes a difference. Even the one pinprick of light does enough – for that one pinprick of light means that it is not **total **obsidian that fills the void of evil. We make no difference if we walk only in the light, because we are trying to light the way for those who make their lives in the dark._"

The paladin who had said that had been Sir Keldorn Firecam. And although Reynald was feeling to be in a much more literal case of darkness and light, he could see the meaning those words held, the purpose he had… no, he had _once _had. Not to mention that –

His train of thought was interrupted as footsteps reached his ears. Not the light padding of a vampire, though certainly not the heavy footsteps of the average human. Something… in between?

Reynald raised his torch. Whoever was there would know of his presence already, for he was not silent either, and thus he had best bring as much light as possible to know who it was he was going to have to kill. He hefted his sword in his right hand, then stepped forward, towards the curve in the corridor ahead where the footsteps had come from.

Every muscle in his body was taut, prepared for anything as he moved onwards. His torch continued to play shadows along the walls, but as he peered ahead, he realised that there were some not caused by his own light.

He lowered the sword slightly as a mumbled curse confirmed who was approaching him, and tried to cut down on the laughter that threatened. "Well –"

Reynald got no further as a shadowed shape lunged around the corner, shining sword upraised, ready to bring it down on his skull. Fortunately, Reynald had instinct enough left in him to lash out, and a gloved fist curled around a sword hilt connected with his attacker's jaw solidly.

Harrian let out a grunt and a slight whine as he was knocked back, staggering into the wall behind him. There was a long pause as he regarded the shape of Reynald in front of him, then he raised his hand to his pained jaw. "Ouch! That _hurt_, you idiot!"

"Idiot? Me? You were the one who tried to split my skull in half. Just be glad that I wasn't wound up as tightly as you, or I'd have gutted you then!" Reynald exclaimed, indignant and defensive.

"I'd like to see you…"

"Children?"

Both Reynald and Harrian turned towards Jaheira sheepishly. The druid had one eyebrow raised with amusement, and Imoen was sniggering behind her distinctively. "Perhaps you had best listen to Anomen when he insists that there is no stench of undead from around the corner?"

"I'm sure there are threats which are not undead to be found here," Harrian mumbled slightly. "I just… wanted… to check."

"Perhaps, if we are done trying to kill each other, we could move on?" Sarevok asked lightly, his armour creaking a little as he folded his arms across his chest. "It might be more productive than splitting skulls and breaking jaws…"

"Dissent in the party… coming to blows… my raven, your management techniques seem to only have suffered in my absence!" Haer'Dalis exclaimed, smirking and shaking his head in a reproving manner.

"Shut up, bard," Harrian mumbled sulkily. "Sorry about that, Reynald… good to see you're alive and well… but what have I told you about young floosies wanting attention in crowded, dangerous taverns?"

Reynald's brow furrowed. "Nothing, if I recall correctly."

Harrian faltered slightly. "Well… then… I'm telling you now. _Don't trust them_."

A silence fell, broken by Anomen at last. "Any of them?" he asked, reaching into the bag of holding the party owned to try and retrieve Reynald's equipment that he had left behind.

"Well, don't trust the ones that are vampires," Harrian declared with finality.

"Thank you for that little pearl of wisdom, Harrian," Jaheira sighed, shaking her head slightly. "Perhaps we should… move on? Two vampires down already, more ahead, and Gromnir beyond; now is not the time to discuss picking up ladies in seedy taverns…"


	19. Chapter XIX: Blood Oaths

**Chapter XIX: Blood Oaths**

It was decided that Harrian should be accompanied by Anomen at the front of the party as they made their way through the crypts. Most of the group was spread out, all seven of them stretched a suitable way down the corridor; close enough for protection, far out enough to avoid being trapped in a confined space. Harrian's sharp eyesight brought him to take point, however, but the recent reunion with Reynald meant that Jaheira had insisted he have Anomen with him, the cleric constantly searching in front of them for any hint of the undead.

But it seemed Helm was smiling on them that day, for the party had only encountered the odd lone vampire, most of which Harrian had slain without much thought or hesitation. His hatred of vampires had not changed over the years, and had certainly not been decreased by Bodhi's suspicious introduction and later abduction of Jaheira. The place made his teeth itch, and he was only glad he had Anomen, whose priestly powers stood against all the undead represented, beside him.

There was mostly silence upon the party, everyone lost in their own thoughts or concentrating on their own duties. Reynald had donned the Red Dragon scale quickly, and was now back to a full fighting strength, both Harrian and Imoen had their attention on searching for traps, and Anomen's senses were straining to detect the undead.

So it was not expected that the two at the front, with their own duties, would be talking. As such, Harrian jumped a little when Anomen's quiet voice penetrated his reverie; loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to not take the attention of any of the others in the party.

"My friend… I would like to talk to you."

"If it has anything to do with Imoen, you needn't bother. You know I've never had any problems with the two of you together. I couldn't hope for a better man for my sister, and that's the truth," Harrian said quietly, running a gloved hand along the stone wall slowly to ensure there were no suspicious imperfections that could lead to a dangerous snare.

Anomen seemed surprised by this response, and it showed with his hesitation for the next few seconds as he hunted for the right words. "I… no… not about Imoen. I may respect you, Harrian, but I do not need your permission to have affection for her. No, I mean to talk to you about… Sarevok."

Harrian groaned slightly. "I knew this one would be coming. I'm just surprised Jaheira hasn't brought it up yet… though I suppose she's had bigger fish to fry." He shook his head, stepping onwards with a shade more determination.

"Like your own foolishness? Of which I believe bringing Sarevok with us is a part? What are you thinking, Harrian… the man is a monster, an abomination, and a murderer. And yet you have him fighting by our side…" Anomen's voice became a touch more strained.

"Yes, I do. That's my decision, Anomen. This is my party… my… my quest… destiny…" Harrian's voice trailed off, and he shook his head a little. "I know of the wrongs Sarevok has committed. I have more reason than _anyone _to hate him. He did kill my father, after all."

"Your fa… oh. Gorion. Your foster-father," Anomen stumbled, realisation and memory hitting him slowly.

"My father. In all the senses of the word in which it matters. Sarevok killed him to get to me, and spent months trying to hunt me down and finish the job. He tried to start a war to allow himself to be elevated to the level of godhood, and was responsible for the deaths of many in his schemes along the way." Harrian's voice was quiet, taut, full of anger yet under control.

"And then you killed him. And he went to rot in the Abyss. And that's where he belongs," Anomen said stiffly.

"Perhaps. But if he does know all about the prophecies, then he will be of use to us," Harrian replied calmly.

"Then read a book!" Anomen exclaimed, a little louder than he intended.

"I… it's more than that… I don't forgive him," Harrian stumbled, the words coming with difficulty. "I don't trust him. I don't condone what he did, by any means. But I think he might have… have paid for his crimes. Or has the chance to. And I… I can understand… why he did it."

A dull silence met his words, broken by only a sharp intake of breath by Anomen. "I can sense no undead ahead… though Helm might be wrong, of course," he said, his voice shaking a little. "But there is still a presence of evil about us."

"The taint spoke in his ear, telling him what to do, promising him power, and making him _love _killing. And Sarevok didn't have Gorion as a father to help him deal with that. I don't know how he was brought up, but I'll bet anything it wasn't in a loving world of kindness and care. Sarevok was one of the strongest Bhaalspawns, one of those who felt the taint most keenly. And the only reason I didn't end up like him is because I had a chance he never did." Harrian's voice _was _shaking, though he didn't know if it was from anger or sorrow, but a very large part of him needed Anomen to understand his words.

"The taint is affecting us all more," he continued. "I've felt it more keenly as of late. I know Imoen's been affected by it, whatever she tells me. And the Five seem to be under its sway. So there is much to be gained by having one with us who understands the taint without being a slave to it."

"He is a slave to his own immorality, though, Harrian, surely you see this," Anomen said quietly. "I do not think the risks are quite worth the results. We can do without him. And you are not going to fall so much to your taint that we need to _understand _it."

"If you think that, Anomen, then you certainly don't comprehend it," Harrian mumbled.

"That's not what I mean," Anomen said slowly. "I am by your side until the bitter end, Harrian. But my allegiance is to you, not to your taint. And if you are ever so far gone that it is the taint that dictates your every action, then…"

Harrian stopped, wondering how exactly to take this. He could read between the lines, and knew what Anomen was saying. A part of him – an admittedly small part – was rather offended that a friend was threatening him if he ever turned off the straight and narrow. Most of the rest of his mind felt reassured.

"Then you should do all you can, and I hope that you do," he said to Anomen with all honesty. "I believe I can do it. I believe I can fight my taint enough to not fall prey to it. But if I ever do… then you know what your duty is." Harrian paused, glancing at the walls around them. "And is your vow to Imoen the same?"

"I hardly think you two of are of comparable –"

"We are. And she'd thank you for it," Harrian said quietly, reaching out a hand to stop Anomen from stepping forward further. "Wait a second."

He reached down into his boot to pull out his dagger, and slowly crept forward, the blade resting against one of the stones in the wall. His chewed on his lower lip as he concentrated, his hand as steady as it could be, before he found the crack in the stones he searched for, and gently pushed the blade of the dagger in.

His hand came back quickly as there was an almighty creak, and a huge blade emerged from the opposite wall, swinging across to bury itself in the crack where Harrian's dagger had been.

Anomen stared at the trap that had been set off, going an odd shade of green by the torchlight. "You could not have simply… disarmed it?"

"Easier this way," Harrian said with a shrug, stepping forward past the blade. He paused to glance over his shoulder at the rest of the party, some ten metres back, and gave Jaheira a thumbs-up that made the druid just roll her eyes.

"But I think Sarevok deserves his chance," Harrian continued as if nothing had happened, Anomen falling into step uncomfortably beside him. "His chance for redemption, and if he can play his part in the prophecies and help stop the realms from falling under the power of another mad God of Murder, then I'm willing to take whatever risks there are. We need everything on our side we can get, Anomen."

"I… I know," the cleric said quietly, eyes downcast. "I simply urge you to keep a close eye on him. For all we know, he may decide that one of the others of the Five is stronger, and more likely to elevate him to his right hand once they take the throne. I know that he might be your brother…"

"My brother?" Harrian stared at him in absolute shock. "Why should I think of him as my brother?"

"Well, I know that the taint has been stripped from him, but…"

"Even if it hadn't, he's no brother of mind," Harrian declared, letting out a quick bark of laughter and shaking his head slightly. "Whatever he wishes to call me. I'll tolerate the connection he places, but I won't share it. I call Imoen my sister for the same reasons I call Gorion my father – in every sense that matters, that is what they are. And I don't think the Bhaaltaint adds any more legitimacy to our place as siblings than was already there."

"I see," Anomen said slowly, though he clearly didn't.

"If anyone is a brother of mine, Anomen, it's you. I mean, I've always considered the party to be my family, though it's lately been more disconnected and changing. I may not have known you my entire life, like Imoen, and you may not have been an old friend of Gorion's, like Jaheira, and we may not have thwarted Sarevok together in the north, like Minsc and I, but you have stood by me in the hardest times of my life," Harrian told him quietly, his gaze fixed on the corridor ahead. "Khalid was a mentor. Minsc was Minsc. Garrick was an idiot. And so forth. When it's mattered, mattered to _me_ – not to the Sword Coast, not to the relations between Amn and Baldur's Gate, not to the iron trade – it has been _you _that's stood by me." Harrian shook his head. "Sarevok's no brother of mine. You are."

Silence fell upon the two of them, broken only by their own footsteps and the echoes of the steps of those behind them. Harrian had fallen into his own thoughts, and Anomen seemed to be searching for something to say… until his eyes widened, and his grip on the Flail of Ages tightened.

"Vampires," he whispered. "Straight ahead. Ten of them, I believe."

Harrian let out a low chuckle and came to a halt, gesturing to the rest of the party to catch up. "Good," he said at last, pulling out the Daystar. "I thought I was going to turn into a woman if we continued that train of conversation for any longer…"


	20. Chapter XX: End of Blood

**Chapter XX: End of Blood**

"If these guards are the best that the soldiers of Il-Khan had to offer, we could have made a frontal attack!" Sarevok declared bluntly as he pulled the Warblade out of the body of the captain of the guard it had been stuck in. The party was surrounded by perhaps a dozen corpses, all of them Gromnir's soldiers who had answered the alarm in the main entrance hall following the arrival of Harrian and his friends.

"Perhaps, though we still needed to make a detour to rescue Reynald," Harrian pointed out, wiping the Daystar clean with the rag he usually kept stuck in his belt. He glanced around the expansive hallway, then gestured up a flight of stairs in the corner. "Gromnir's up this way, right?"

"I didn't _need _rescuing, if you noticed, my friend," Reynald protested quite fairly. "I was doing perfectly well by myself without anyone's intervention. Granted, it was my own foolishness that _landed _me in the situation in the first place, aye, but I managed to prove myself capable of handling a few pathetic vampires."

"Well, they're certainly pathetic _now_," Jaheira mumbled predatorily. She wasn't going to pretend that she, more than any of the others, had found the chaos they'd taken to the vampires quite satisfactory. Her memory of any time under the influence of Bodhi back in Athkatla was blurred at best; nightmares had plagued her for the handful of nights following her recovery, but there was not enough that was truly tangible to haunt her mind any more. Besides, she had more real concerns that affected her.

"Yes, I think seeing you hurtling towards them with death in your eyes is quite enough to reduce anyone to a gibbering wreck," Harrian told her, smiling fondly and chuckling as she gave him a mock-glower.

"Whilst that is good to know, in their case, I prefer to reduce them with a scimitar if at all possible," Jaheira replied with certainty. "And yes. If my estimations from outside of the building were correct, then those stairs should be the only ones which lead up to the second floor."

"The best method of defences," Anomen agreed. "Though I would be most surprised if Gromnir is not already expecting us. That alarm and noise was rather great. He would have to be deeply involved in something else to not be aware of our arrival."

As such, it was decided that it would be best if they made their way up the stairs slowly and quietly, trying to not declare their presence any more than they already had. But when Imoen, as the stealthiest member of the party, poked her head around the huge archway letting them onto the second level, she was quick to report the old clear.

"There are two chambers," she hissed, ushering them through quickly. "This one's safe, but don't make too much noise, and _don't _walk past that archway _there_." This was a large entranceway, leading to what they assumed would have to be Gromnir's throne room; and as they stepped closer, this presumption turned out to be correct.

Voice could be heard coming through, clear raised and angry. One was deep, gruff, and quite guttural; the other lighter and distinctly more eloquent. Harrian glanced at the others as they approached the archway, keeping close to the walls.

"Is that Melissan?" he asked.

"Aye," Haer'Dalis confirmed quietly, then shrugged as Jaheira gave him a quizzical look. "She tended to come down to the tavern often in hard times. She is well known about the city."

But before Jaheira could press this issue, and make a mental note to ask these people around the city about Melissan, Harrian waved a hand at them for silence. Jaheira rolled her eyes, but complied, listening intently.

"You are _mad_, Gromnir!" Melissan was shrieking, and Jaheira moved a little closer to the corner to discreetly glance around. The voices echoed around so much that it was hard to hear anything else if you were within the chamber; certainly the sounds of a distant fight would be muffled. The guards inside seemed to have no intention of moving, doubtless bound to be Il-Khan's bodyguards.

The massive half-Orc was striding to and fro in front of his large, spiky throne that Jaheira had half a mind Sarevok would adore. He was an impressive sight, wearing armour of a golden tinge that seemed to dazzle in the candlelight, and hefting a huge warhammer that looked likely to be able to split any skulls it wished to.

"Mad? Hah! No… Gromnir not mad. Gromnir knows what Melissan is up to. Sneaking around the city, with her other Bhaalspawn allies, bringing anger to people. Making them rise up against Gromnir! Sneaky, sneaky Melissan," the half-Orc grunted, shaking his head and his hammer at her.

"Sneaking?" Melissan's expression shifted to one of indignation for a long moment, before she rolled her eyes and assumed a posture of defeat. "I am trying to make no-one rise against you, Gromnir. Merely understand that I brought you to the city with your army so you would help _protect _the people here, not allow your troops to begin bullying as you holed yourself up in this castle."

Gromnir waved a hand at the window, through which a vague suggestion of Yaga-Shura's besieging army could be seen. "Gromnir protects! Gromnir mans the walls! It is _Melissan _who makes the unhappiness with the people!"

"You are the one who allows your troops to bully them! It is you who sent away Captain Asrael before Yaga-Shura's attack, and now you refuse to send him a message to come to your aid! His soldiers could _lift _the siege!" Melissan snapped, the formerly held composure crumbling in the face of Gromnir's stubbornness. Despite her suspicion for the woman, Jaheira could not help but sympathise – after all, Harrian had an ability to similarly rip down even her most composed mask.

"And what of the Bhaalspawn assassin Melissan has smuggled into the city to kill Gromnir? Yes, Gromnir knows all about that. Secret ways within the walls, past the siege. Secret killer to kill Gromnir!" The general played his trump-card with panache, waving his hammer at Melissan angrily.

"They are _not _assassins, Gromnir. I have _said _this," Melissan snapped, glowering at him now. "They could help, if you just _met _with them! They could kill Yaga-Shura and let Saradush be free from now on!"

Gromnir stopped, looking at her quizzically. "Kill Yaga-Shura?" he repeated calmly. "Then they _are _assassins!" He turned to two of the foot soldiers in the chamber, and gestured to them. "Take her away! Down to the dungeons! But watch closely! Gromnir knows Melissan is tricky! Melissan lies… Melissan… _deceives_…"

There was a long pause as the guards grabbed Melissan by the arms, and began to direct her towards the archway, which would lead to the stairs and, eventually, the dungeons. During that time, the party exchanged long looks of uncertainty, for the guards would see them as they passed for certain.

But when the two men walked past, Melissan held between them, they fell instantly. Harrian had let loose a throwing knife and Imoen fired an arrow, and both projectiles had hit their targets in the neck for instant kills. Jaheira frowned slightly as she realised she hadn't seen either Bhaalspawn so much as exchange glances of agreement, but now was not the time to contemplate this as Harrian strode around the corner, instantly flanked by Anomen and Reynald. With a sigh, and a brief nod to the visibly surprised Melissan, the druid hefted her scimitars and moved to join them.

"What is this?" Gromnir demanded as he saw the seven adventurers before them. "The assassins of Melissan's? Another Spawn of Bhaal?" He spat on the floor. "Think _you _can take on _Gromnir_, ah? Then do battle!"

Jaheira saw Harrian look torn for about a second, then the half-Orc lunged towards him and the thief drew his longsword quickly. It looked as if the peaceful resolution he had wanted was not going to be possible.

Gromnir only had four guards with him, and Haer'Dalis and Sarevok moved to take on two of the soldiers who had the look of more elite, better-trained bodyguards as Anomen and Reynald threw themselves against the pair of mages who were already casting protective spells. Imoen let loose an arrow that caught one in the thigh quickly before beginning her own chanting, and seeing the situation was already in hand, Jaheira moved to join Harrian, in whom she did not have absolute faith when it came to battling a massively strong half-Orc in one-on-one combat.

But it was merciful that she took a step forward, for the short-sword aimed at hamstringing her merely slashed the back of her thigh. She let out a yelp of pain and surprise, swivelling and swinging her scimitar in a slash that would have left a human or elf without a head.

For the halfling who had just emerged from what had to be the effects of an invisibility potion, it merely threatened him with a haircut, and the small rogue darted back, cursing his lack of success at bringing her down.

Jaheira lunged at him, almost unthinkingly adapting her fighting style to this lower threat, and the halfling parried her blows with his enchanted short sword, the shriek of metal upon metal ringing out across the hall.

But before she could continue with another blow to the halfling, the small creature grabbed a flask at its belt and took a large gulp from the purple-black liquid, disappearing immediately. Jaheira let out a curse and immediately stepped away from where the invisible halfling had been, raising her swords again.

He was invisible and dangerous, and she had no idea where he was. However much her ears strained, it was impossible to pick up any hint over the noise of battle, especially when it included the death-cry of one of the foot-soldiers Sarevok had just carved up neatly.

Jaheira swore lightly, then closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. The druid grove where she had grown up had placed an emphasis on using strength to defend nature – but always to rely on instincts, on one's own ability, and not on equipment that could fail at any moment. She could still remember the cracks of pain across her back and her shins from sticks at the blindfolded drills the head druid had put her through. Unorthodox, but they made you… stretch out… and _feel_… and…

The scimitar whipped around again, once more behind her, once more at the halfling who had similar intentions to the previous time. Only, to make things different, steel connected with _his _flesh on this occasion, and the halfling fell with a croak and a gurgle and a spray of blood as a scimitar hit him on the shoulder and split him down to his solar plexus.

Jaheira didn't dwell on this, though; she turned around to see what had happened with the rest of the party. One of the bodyguards was putting up a valiant effort against the whirling blades of Haer'Dalis, whose fighting technique seemed to have been particularly polished in the months of his absence; his swords moved almost faster than the eye could follow, making tiny scratches and slashes at points which were enough to slowly cripple the man, even through his armour. He would not last long.

Sarevok had joined Reynald against the first of the two mages, the one with an arrow in his leg that was impeding his casting, and a quick blow in the right spot was bringing him weaker and weaker, even through his defences. Anomen was still the only one facing the other mage, but Imoen had shifted her attention to him, and as one spell crackled around the wizard's shimmering defences to bring them down, the cleric swung the Flail of Ages rapidly to crack heavily against the man's skull.

But Jaheira turned again, focusing her attention now on Harrian, who was still battling Gromnir. To his credit, the half-Orc looked worse for wear as they fought, the general lurching and swinging, the thief bobbing, weaving, ducking and making the most of his lighter weight and greater agility over his lumbering opponent.

A shout of success from beyond them denoted Reynald's success in bringing down the second mage as the man fell like a sack of bricks, and Jaheira was dimly aware of Haer'Dalis finally finishing off the guard he'd been toying with for minutes. Gromnir was alone, but the half-Orc battled on, hardly aware of his fully hostile surroundings.

But Melissan appeared in the archway, Jaheira dryly noting how long it took her to recover from being forcibly moved five metres by a pair of thugs, and held her hand out. "Stop! Do… do not slay him, if you can avoid –"

The following few seconds seemed to last longer than they actually did. Jaheira's gaze went to Harrian's face, and saw his expression twisted in confusion and turmoil. She could not read this unfamiliar look fully, but saw the stiffness of his posture, the hostile poise of his blade, and managed to recognise an inner conflict as she saw it. A glance – she knew not why she turned in Imoen's direction, but she did – at the pink-haired archmage confirmed a similar expression on her face, an arrow aimed at Gromnir.

"Do not…" Melissan stammered, stepping forward, even through the dying seconds of combat where madness still reined, "…do not slay –"

Sarevok stepped forward, as the mage who had stood before him still even tumbled to the ground, and swung the Warblade into a blow that cleaved through Gromnir Il-Khan's back, almost splitting the Bhaalspawn general in two and certainly not doing his pretty armour much good.

There was a long pause as Gromnir let out a gurgle and a croak, Melissan a yell of frustration and – what was it, despair? – and both Harrian and Imoen gripped their weapons, clutching at their foreheads as if in great pain.

The endeavour to 'have a talk' with the general of Saradush had ended, as all things did, with blood.


	21. Chapter XXI: Pointing the Way

**Chapter XXI: Pointing the Way**

"I have little patience for mountains," Harrian said sulkily as he sat down at the table in the tavern, around which the rest of the party and Melissan was gathering. "Especially when they tend to be the strongholds for individuals like Yaga-Shura. We cannot fight an army ourselves."

"Are there no alternatives? No other bastions where the heart might be hidden?" Jaheira agreed, a little desperately as she pulled up the chair next to Harrian, leaning on the table and fixing Melissan with a look.

The woman shrugged as the other party members pulled up their chairs, forming an effective wall against any passers-by or waitresses who might try to eavesdrop. The sight of Sarevok, fully armoured with a dangerous sword was usually enough to send someone on their way as it was.

"His old home is a possibility. A temple in the Forest of Mir, in one of the more… swampy areas," Melissan suggested uncertainly. She shook her head. "One of Yaga-Shura's old guardians was some witch who was also a priestess of Bhaal. There is, indeed, a good chance she holds some knowledge of the secret of his invulnerability."

"Even if she's not responsible for it, maybe she gave him the basis of the magic he used for it," Imoen mused, scribbling something down on a piece of parchment before her with a large, red quill. "Or might just know of some way to counter it. Lots of mysterious magics around which it can take a… certain hand to figure out."

"And none more capable than you, my wildflower," Haer'Dalis commented quietly, though sincerely and without any particular obsequiousness. "At the very worst, mayhaps she will be aware of some means of entering Yaga-Shura's mountain fortress by a more subtle route than a frontal assault."

"The bard is right. We cannot fight an army single-handedly," Sarevok interjected. "Though would it not be possible to raise the guards here at Saradush and bring them with us when we leave the city? Organise a proper force to assault the fortress in the Marching Mountains?"

The others looked at him, all in varying degrees of disbelief and bemusement, until Melissan shook her head. "We need the guards _here_. Yes, your endeavour is to break the siege here, but however faster your journey will be with an army, you will have nothing to come _back _to if you bring the guards with you." There was a certain stiffness to her, a certain tilt in her chin, that made Harrian quite sure arguing would go badly.

Regardless, Sarevok argued. "I thought our endeavour was to kill Yaga-Shura?" He smiled predatorily. "Surely we will be able to save more lives in the long-run if we kill him sooner, regardless of the fate of Saradush."

"Sarevok. Now is not the time." Harrian's voice held a warning note in it as he glowered at the man who called him 'brother', even when he asked him not to.

"My lady, you mentioned a Captain Asrael when you argued with Gromnir in the throne room. Does he have a force of any sort? Who is he? Could he be useful?" Anomen asked slowly, leaning across the table and trying to end the confrontation.

Melissan shifted a little. "Captain Asrael was the captain of the guard here at Saradush, before Gromnir even came. Gromnir elevated him to the senior level of leadership in his army, but the two quarrelled often over defensive strategies. Asrael was not… exiled, exactly, but Gromnir sent him and a sizeable force away from the city as a sort of border patrol… the specifics of these military strategies elude me." Melissan smiled hesitantly and a little sheepishly.

"Is he still in the area?" Jaheira asked.

"Truly, I know not," Melissan confessed. "I know not if he lives or where he might be or what his plans are. If you can find him, he is a man of honour and will presumably do his best to help you once the situation is explained to him. He is bound to Saradush, not any of the Bhaalspawn allegiances."

"A useful man, if we can find him," Harrian said thoughtfully. "This is useful, Melissan. We thank you for your help."

She shook her head. "Do not thank me," the red-haired woman said. "Gromnir's madness brought Yaga-Shura upon us, but I brought him here. This city is my responsibility, and I shall not see it fall."

"But who are you, to care so much for the Bhaalspawn?" Sarevok rumbled, giving her a dark look.

Melissan hesitated again, then glanced down at the table. "My… husband was a Bhaalspawn," she said levelly at last. "Bounty hunters killed him – I later discovered them to be the bounty hunters of Illasera, whom I am glad you have slain, Harrian. I did not intend to end up being such a 'guardian angel', however." She shrugged. "Jerid was plagued his entire life by his taint. I started merely by taking in other innocent Bhaalspawn being persecuted for their blood, an effort which slowly began to develop. Now I find myself with the weight of the pawns in the Bhaalspawn prophecies resting on my shoulders."

Harrian raised an eyebrow. "The pawns?" he repeated dubiously.

Melissan gave him a look. "I do not concern myself with the wellbeing of the strong chosen few such as you, Harrian. I merely wish to see that these people are not murdered themselves, or 'executed' when they have committed no crime. To further that end I do need to see threats eliminated, truly, and Yaga-Shura and his allies are one of them."

"That's a point. You mentioned his allies before." Imoen looked up from her parchment and took a large gulp of her ale. "Who are they?"

"They are known as 'The Five'," Melissan explained falteringly. "Illasera was one, so I suppose that makes them only Four. I know the names of two others – Abazigal and Sendai, though their nature or location are mysteries to me."

"I'll stick them on the list of individuals I'll probably have to kill at some point in the future, then, shall I?" Harrian commented dryly. "But noted. Three more people to worry about when Yaga-Shura's done." He shook his head. "If only I knew where this would end."

"When the attacks stop?" Melissan hazarded a guess. "I know not. But I must depart, now; with Gromnir gone, much of the city is falling into further chaos. They need a strong hand to guide them, now."

"And that is you, is it?" Sarevok commented scathingly.

Melissan looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head slightly. "Nay. But I shall have to suffice until one comes along."

"We thank you for your aid, Melissan. And I'm grateful you haven't baited me with minimal knowledge and a lure to greater things later," Harrian said wryly, giving her a slow nod as he sipped his own beer.

"I needed to establish your intentions. I apologise," Melissan stood slowly. "I am sure I shall see you again soon, Godchild. Good luck on your endeavour." Then she wound her way through the crowds of the tavern and was gone.

"Well, that was interesting," Reynald said musingly as he looked around the table. "At least we'll be getting out of this wretched city. It shall be pleasant to be wandering the lands as before."

"I think we all need it," Jaheira agreed, glancing at Harrian. "Can your pocket plane take us there as it took us here? Otherwise, leaving the city will be hard. I know you taunted Melissan when we first arrived with an ability to come and go as you please, but…"

"No, I don't know if I can. I suggest we try to find out in the morning." Harrian nodded.

"It should be able to. The plane was created to service you in your destiny. That is what the challenges were made for, that is what it took you to Saradush for. If the Forest of Mir is your next step in making your way through the Prophecy, then the Forest of Mir is where your domain shall take you when you prompt it." Sarevok shrugged. "That is, truth be told, all I know of your domain; I was merely placed there to guide you and… I suppose… because I must have my own part to play."

"If we left you to play your own part, you would be leading the entire defences of Saradush away to destroy Yaga-Shura's invulnerability and then wipe out his army as they were distracted butchering the people of the city," Anomen spat.

"Aye, there is a certain fittingness to it all, is there not?" Haer'Dalis commented. "Death and entropy to spare others yet further inevitable pain. An intriguing contrast. You are verily the subject of entropy itself, my hound." He nodded to Sarevok.

Sarevok glowered. "It is what one would call an 'acceptable loss'."

Harrian raised a hand as Anomen looked ready to spit out another angry curse, and stood slowly. "We need more drinks." He fixed Sarevok with a look. "Help me carrying them, _brother_, for I do not have enough hands to bring seven back to the table without assistance."

Sarevok fell into step behind Harrian without protest as they headed towards the counter, then sighed heavily when the thief turned to face him. "I suggest you keep your own darker intentions to yourself, _brother_," Harrian started stiffly. "I may have brought you back, but I won't suffer this sort of talk. And especially not that sort of action."

"I am surprised I yet remain at your side, if you loathe what I am so very much," Sarevok said, shaking his head. "It is astonishing you stomach me at all."

"You know no better," Harrian mumbled, turning away and perching on a stool by the counter. "Or, you should know no better. I am giving you what's known as the benefit of the doubt." He fixed Sarevok with a look. "Your actions in the north… killing Gorion, causing the Iron Crisis, were the results of Bhaal's whispering. I have to believe that, otherwise I need to consider that you are 'naturally evil', a concept that does not sit well with me."

"My actions were caused by my desire for godhood, yes. But that desire was a purely mortal one. Surely you feel the same tug, brother," Sarevok said blankly, pulling up another stool and looking at him.

"I don't want to be a god, Sarevok," Harrian said blankly. "They have to worry about too many things all day, and get into huge power struggles, and get busy collecting worshippers… I don't want a quiet life, that's for sure, but I don't want _that _life. I don't crave power over others. It's too much hassle for me."

Sarevok blinked at him. "You do not intend to take the taint and the prestige you are gaining here and use it to your own advantage? You could rise further than these other pretenders – Yaga-Shura, and this Abazigal and Sendai. You could _be _a god."

"So you say, Sarevok, but your plans were covered by being slightly insane last year, if you recall," Harrian mumbled.

"Guided by reading of the scriptures. The prophecies at no point directly say 'Bhaal shall return'. People merely assume that it is he they refer to when they say 'The God of Murder shall return', or words to that effect." Sarevok shrugged. "I forget most of the words of the prophecies. But find me a book and I can interpret them better than most."

"I can read a book myself."

"Prophecies are not… cheap pieces of literature. They are living, complicated texts. Interpreting them is serious work. Candlekeep's monks were devoted to studying Alaundo's Prophecies." Sarevok glowered. "You do recall Candlekeep, yes, the place you grew up? Are these words making any sense to you."

Harrian gave him a look. "Regardless of what the prophecies say, the new god won't be me. I'm just trying to make sure as few people die as possible. The realms will survive if a new evil god ascends. They know he'd have enough company up there as it is to not cause too many hiccups."

"You truly do not wish the power for yourself?" Sarevok asked, blinking.

"Truly." Harrian nodded.

"Even with Bhaal whispering promises of glory in your ear?"

"Especially with Bhaal whispering in my ear. He's not my type." Harrian shook his head, and shrugged. "As I said, much of what you did came down to listening to Bhaal. He can be persuasive, and tempting. I have Gorion alone to thank for my success at resisting. You did not have him." Harrian turned and picked up some of the mugs of ale and mead that arrived on the counter. "You have a gift, Sarevok. A second chance, and one free of the whisperings of murder. I suggest you make the most of it."

He stood up. "You listened to Bhaal before, and it brought you death. I understand why you could not resist. You had to listen to him." He turned, and started to make his way back towards the table, but not before making one last comment. "You don't have to any more."


	22. Chapter XXII: Walk in the Woods

**Chapter XXII: Walk in the Woods**

Reynald had to suppose that he was becoming accustomed to travelling via Harrian's portal from the pocket plane, because his stomach wasn't churning quite as it had when they had first been taken to Saradush. He could hardly believe that had been two long days ago – and not even five days ago, he had been awaking to the calm sun and bright greenery of Suldanessellar, with the most trying concern on the horizon being the afternoon's drilling practice. Now they were caught up in a war, a prophecy, a race for godhood. Times were hard.

He looked over at the others as they all materialised in the woodland of the Forest of Mir, under the cool canopy of trees that protected them from the glare of the burning, hot southern sun. "Are we all alright?" he called out slowly, bracing himself against a nearby tree until the world stopped its gentle spin before his eyes.

"I am here, dark knight. You do not get rid of me so easily," Sarevok boomed, though with a slightly uncomfortable edge to his voice as he shifted his feet to keep his balance on the woodland floor.

"I'm okay," Imoen said, and actually sounded it. She was already moving about the wooded area, keenly investigating the greenery. A dull moan was Anomen's only interjection, and she moved to the side of the green-faced cleric, handing him her water flask.

"There are worse ways to travel," said the cool and unruffled Jaheira, who seemed yet more composed in their environment.

"Name one, my ptarmigan, and I shall endeavour to place them all in a ballad of 'The Greatest Ways to Lose One's Lunch'. I do not recall plane-hopping being so… nauseating."

"Sorry, guys," Harrian said, throwing his cloak over his shoulder. "It's hard to make it a smooth journey, but I think I'm getting there." He looked at their surroundings warily, then sighed. "I'm afraid that my navigating skills might be as bad as they ever were, though."

"Yeah, brother, I don't see any temples around here," Imoen commented, popping out from behind a tree. She seemed to be revelling in their environment, bobbing to and fro in the undergrowth about them and making the most of her stealth skills. "I think we might have taken a wrong turn. I'm not complaining, though."

"Then… where are we?" Reynald asked slowly, sceptically.

"This _is _the Forest of Mir," Jaheira confirmed. "But the forest is large. The temple could be days away." She reached into her pack and pulled out a map, worn, torn, and slightly dog-eared though it was. "It will be hard to navigate if we do not know where we are, however." She gave Harrian a pointed look.

He padded over to her side, looking over her shoulder at the map and standing a little closer than one usually would when they wanted to read something the other held, Reynald noted with a smirk. "I did get a vague bird's eye view when I was trying to fix our portal spot. I'm sure we're somewhere in this area." He gestured to a certain part of the map.

"Indeed?" Then there should be this village some way to the east. Perhaps we could go there and move on, if only to confirm our location and find some further clues as to the whereabouts of this temple?" Jaheira suggested.

He smiled at her. "That's what I was thinking."

Reynald smirked tightly as he heard Haer'Dalis mumble something under his breath about 'one mind'. "Then we walk," the Fallen Paladin said, noting that Jaheira and Harrian jerked slightly out of a reverie at his voice. "It is some time since we have journeyed like this. Is it not right to return to the roots of our adventures?"

"I doubt we could have picked a nicer area for a hike," even city-bred Anomen had to agree. "For poor navigating, Harrian, this is tolerable."

So they marched on, remaining quiet mostly, breaking off into their respective groups as they moved through the unbeaten paths of the wilderness, some of them – like Anomen – suffering more difficulties at the hands of nature than others, Jaheira in particular. Reynald kept his dagger drawn to chop away stray branches that threatened him, and to clear the path for the bulky Sarevok directly behind him, but overall the going was not too bad.

Harrian and Jaheira led the way, moving with an easy closeness and talking in low voices of matters that brought more smiles to their faces than frowns, though the others could not overhear. Harrian seemed to often take the chance to brush some hair out of her face, or she to touch him lightly on the arm, and as Reynald knew that neither of them were much for public displays of affection, this spoke a lot of the high spirits and comfortable intimacy they enjoyed at the moment.

Anomen and Imoen were also a little away from the others, taking up the rear. They were a little less subtle in their affections and intimacy, and Reynald was slightly glad that he had to keep his eyes on the path ahead. Although he had nothing against either of them, their happiness, or the manner in which they were displaying it, it was certainly not uncommon for him to feel particular pangs at sight of young infatuation.

And so he found himself with the bulky Sarevok and the irksome Haer'Dalis, though as the two hours went by before they reached the village, he found the tiefling to be a passable conversationalist in matters of good music, though their own definitions of 'good' seemed to be in regular contrast.

At the end of those two hours, when it seemed as if they had got nowhere, Harrian suddenly came to a halt and stared at the air intently, inhaling deeply through his nose. "What's… what's that? Can anyone else smell that?"

Reynald sniffed experimentally. "I smell smoke," he said at last.

Harrian blinked. "I… yes. That wasn't what I meant, though. I can smell something else." He looked at them, his expression as blank as he could probably make it. "I can smell blood. There's a fight going on."

"You can _smell_ –"

"Where?" Jaheira interrupted Anomen's intently concerned question.

Imoen's head whipped around suddenly, too, and she pointed off towards their left. "That way. Anyone want to bet that this might be the village we were heading to?"

They moved through the woodlands as quickly as possible in the direction, and before long the scent of smoke grew stronger, and screams of what had to be fighting reached their ears, urging them on until they reached the edge of a clearing, remaining in the undergrowth but with the small village visible before them.

Though what they _could _see was limited from the layout. Smoke was thick in the air, as were the flames, and armoured individuals could be seen moving around – as could villagers, simply dressed, fleeing in panic. A man on horseback rode out of the smoke to cut down a running woman, then disappeared back the way he had come again.

It did not take long for all of them to recognise the insignia of Yaga-Shura's soldiers on the armour of the men going through with what _wasn't _a fight… but a slaughter.

Harrian's face was hard as he watched. "Imoen?"

Imoen pulled the pack from her back and lay it on the ground, as most of the others did the same. Reynald pulled out his spyglass to pass it to her, and she nodded her thanks, sticking it in her belt before she nimbly clambered up the nearest tree.

Harrian smiled thinly at Anomen's mild surprise. "She was always climbing up trees in Candlekeep. Not that there were many of them. She has a head for heights that I never quite managed to share."

Jaheira chuckled slightly. "Remember the Cloakwood? I thought Minsc was going to have a fit running around to try and stay underneath her so he could catch her if she fell. She never did, though."

Harrian's smile twitched, and he nodded, though his eyes were still on the village in chaos. "I remember."

Seconds later, Imoen dropped to the ground beside Harrian, passing Reynald back his spyglass. "Yaga-Shura's troops, raiding the village. Maybe two dozen of them? Five on horseback. They're just going from building to building, killing everyone they find. I guess the army needs a lot of supplies."

"What do we do? Move on and try to find the temple ourselves?" Sarevok asked gruffly, and quite honestly.

Harrian stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "No. Let's take them all out. Im, I suggest you get some spells and arrows ready and get back in a tree. Take out as many as you can, and signal us with a flame arrow if it looks as though there might be reinforcements or such." He reached into his bandolier for a throwing knife, tossing it from hand to hand idly.

"I'm on it," Imoen agreed brightly, clambering back up the tree with all the nimbleness of a monkey, pulling her bow off the strap over her shoulder.

"Shall we go, then, and show these bullies what not to do in a village in the middle of nowhere?" Jaheira asked, twirling her scimitar slowly.

They moved to the back of the nearest house quickly, staying under the cover of speed and smoke, and Harrian poked his head around the corner tentatively. "I suggest we split up," he said at last. "Our best tactic would be to keep quiet as we take down as many as we can, so that when the full combat is forced upon us, there aren't many of them left."

Reynald glanced around, seeing two soldiers standing by the next building over and chatting idly, clearly in a lull during the chaos, lazing in the doorway of the simple stone cottage. "I'll head this way," he mumbled to the others, and set off without waiting for a reply.

His red dragon scale did not grant him the most stealth in the world, but he was quieter in moving than Anomen would have been in full plate, and thus made his way around to the back door, where there were no soldiers calmly talking.

He pulled the Blade of Searing out and hefted it slightly, keeping his head low as he passed a window, though a glance inside showed nobody in the room within. The back door was unlocked as he pushed it open, stepping into a small kitchen of the small house, simple and undecorated.

It was amazing he hadn't heard the screams of pain when he was outside the house.

He had to have declared his presence, though, for the two soldiers he'd seen standing outside stepped into the kitchen with swords drawn, not hesitating at all before they lunged at him violently.

But their attacks were sloppy and untrained, and he sidestepped the first one of the pair quickly, slashing at his neck and catching him in a weak spot of the armour, causing him to fall like a sack of potatoes within seconds. The second man carried a claymore, an unwieldy weapon at the best of times and one which certainly wasn't suitable for fighting in such a confined space; his attempted blow at Reynald's skull was easily blocked.

The two exchanged blows for a few moments, Reynald easily with the upper hand but the soldier maintaining a suitable defensive. He stepped back, stumbling on a stool, and the two-handed sword dropped from his grip, clattering on the floor as he himself fell back.

Reynald knew not to hesitate when faced with such an opportunity, and didn't, lunging forward with his sword to stab down at the man. But the soldier proved to have a certain skill that had not been anticipated, and his fist curled around a large cooking pot, swinging it to smash Reynald around the head.

Reynald would have cursed his decision not to wear a helmet if he had been able to think, let alone see, and that thought would have easily been dismissed as the soldier yanked out a knife from his belt and sank it into the fallen paladin's thigh.

With a yell of pain, Reynald fell forward, his injured leg collapsing under his weight, but the tactic managed to backfire on the soldier. Reynald still had enough presence of mind to collapse on his sword, tip pointed down, and the soldier was in the way of the metal and the floor.

Reynald stayed put for a few moments, though, his sword forgotten on the floor, one hand clutching his thigh and the other clutching his temple. He let out a low moan, feeling a wave of pain and nausea fill him, then his right hand came down, shaking, to pull a healing potion from his belt. This he downed gratefully, and the throbbing in his skull and agony in his leg subsided quickly.

The screams still hadn't stopped, though.

Reynald grabbed his sword and dashed through the door the soldiers had come through, standing in the central room of the house to see a young man lying on the floor, draped over a dinner table, in a pool of his own blood. Another Yaga-Shura warrior stood over him.

This other man, appearing to be an officer from his bearing and the condition of his uniform, whirled around to face Reynald as the fallen paladin clattered in, but wasn't even quick enough to draw his sword as he was severed from shoulder to groin in a vicious overhead slice from the unforgiving former knight.

The man on the table let out a slight moan of pain, then raised a shaking hand to weakly brush it against Reynald's armour. "T-thank you…" he gurgled.

Reynald sheathed his sword quickly, moving to his side. "No trouble," he murmured, looking him over. A gut wound, and a severe cut in the chest that could not be seen under thick, crimson liquid. The scent of blood was heavy in the air, as Harrian had claimed; though Reynald did not want to think for too long over why the thief had reacted as he had to the smell.

He reached down to his belt, grabbing a potion, and picked it up, though when his eyes focused on it, he cursed quietly. An Oil of Speed. He had used up his last healing potion to tend to his leg and head. Curse those soldiers!

Reynald looked over at the man, and contemplated searching for Jaheira or Anomen. But there was no time, he was clearly in a lot of pain and didn't seem likely to last much longer. There had once been a time when Reynald could have lain his hands on the man's wounds and they would have been healed – not perfectly but, perhaps, enough.

_Torm… can you hear me_? He reached out to delicately touch the man's chest, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I shall… try something. Do not move," he instructed, his voice a low murmur.

_This former servant of yours has a request to make… a boon he would have you grant him. Return to me the power of healing you once bestowed upon your humble servant, not for my own gain, but so this man can live. Merely… merely allow me to be your vessel in good deeds, my Lord._

Silence filled the air, broken only by ragged breathing from the man, and so Reynald's frown grew deeper, and he tried to concentrate further. _Torm… hear me! This is not for my own good, but for others! Banish me further if you wish, but allow me to stop this man from dying! I beg of you! Grant me_…

There was nothing. The same as ever before; the cold emptiness within him and not a hint of a response from the god he called to – had been calling to for months upon end, without any response. He had once thought that Torm's silence had been notable, that the absence of condemnation had been enough to let him know there was a chance for redemption. But as time went by, his doubt grew further, and he wondered if his Lord even listened to him any more? Even cared any more? He was no longer his paladin, no longer his champion. He was… nothing.

_Torm… now is my final request. Grant me this, and I shall be yours forever, for you to do as you wish. If you… do nothing… if you let this man die…_

The ragged breathing stopped, but as Reynald looked down, it was not to be replaced by a more peaceful, less laboured intake of breath. The man's eyes were frozen open, his face contorted in a painful rictus of death.

_So I suppose I am truly forsaken._


	23. Chapter XXIII: Tin Soldiers

**Chapter XXIII: Tin Soldiers**

The soldiers of Yaga-Shura had not been anticipating the sudden offensive from Harrian and the party. Reynald was not the only one to have success in eliminating the soldiers he had been faced with; the chaos, smoke, and screams had allowed the party to slip in and out of the buildings, killing the butchers as they found them and leaving other soldiers present merely baffled.

Harrian, however, was not finding the ease of their operation to be particularly inspiring. The scent of blood was filling his nostrils, now; strong and almost overpowering. He felt the desire to kill every soldier he encountered keenly, and had rapidly left the building where Jaheira was tending to a wounded woman after he'd found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the jagged cut in her abdomen.

So he would claim to the others that he was merely 'taking a breather' just outside the door; by then, it looked as if they had wiped out most of the soldiers of Yaga-Shura, leaving only a desolate and almost eradicated village in their wake.

The flaming arrow hitting the ground three metres away from him, from a direction he'd be happy to bet was where Imoen was perched in her tree, prompted him to cease worrying about such matters. It was the signal.

"Jaheira! We need to get out of here! Reinforcements are on the way!" he called into the building, knowing the others were here. They were all nearby; Reynald ashen-faced, Anomen looking distinctly grim, Haer'Dalis as if this were all a minor inconsequence, and Sarevok… Sarevok looking like he was having the time of his life.

It took only a few seconds for them to rally around where Harrian was standing, and he gestured back the way they had come. "We need to get going. Imoen wouldn't have signalled us if it weren't serious."

"We cannot leave these people to the mercies of Yaga-Shura's soldiers _again_," Reynald said quietly, looking distinctively more sullen than was usual for him.

"We do not know what we face. We can withdraw and regroup once we have evaluated the situation once more," Anomen pointed out.

"Afraid, cleric, of facing more soldiers?" Sarevok sneered, arms folded across his chest.

"No, he's right. We don't know what we're facing," Harrian said, shaking his head. "We were successful for the element of surprise and the chaos. We don't have much time, either – come _on_."

As one, they turned and started to jog back towards the trees they had come from, though Harrian slowed down as he heard hoof beats behind them. They had not taken out all of the mounted soldiers!

"Go on!" he shouted, turning and drawing his sword. They would not be able to outrun the horses unless they made it into the undergrowth, and that was too far off by this point. "I'll take care of them."

Jaheira gave him a quick look as if to argue, then shook her head and ushered the others onwards, all of them putting on a burst of speed.

Harrian swung the Equaliser lazily around as he stood his ground, watching two mounted figures emerge through the smoke. One of them held a large, vicious scimitar that was more useful for horseback battle and more common this far south; the other held a longbow that he already had drawn back, two arrows notched. These were not the simple thugs in armour of seconds before.

Harrian could hear the singing in his ears as the mounted archer released the two arrows, and the heady scent of blood was becoming yet more overpowering. But the whistling through the air of the arrows was not overlooked, though his reaction and defence were instinctive, and he doubt he would have been able to replicate them if he'd been forced to.

A quick sidestep that only his almost super-human reflexes allowed brought him out of the path of the twin arrows arcing towards him, and his left hand shot out to snatch the projectiles out of the air.

The archer drew up his horse, staring in disbelief as Harrian snapped his arrows in half, tossing them to the floor idly, but the other cavalry officer was not as deterred. Harrian took the Equaliser in a two-handed grip, sword upraised in preparation of his attempt to charge him down. A man on foot did not usually have much of a chance against a mounted soldier.

Harrian made another swift step to the side when the horse was almost upon him, moving across the path of the beast and to the other side. He felt the air hissing by him as the soldier swung his scimitar at where the thief had been less than a second earlier; but he was on the man's unprotected side now, and his sword came up from below, hitting a joint in the soldier's armour and ramming the metal up through his abdomen.

As the horse charged past and the man fell to the ground, Harrian moved to look back at the mounted archer, reaching into his bandolier for a throwing knife, ready to despatch what had to be the last soldier pillaging the town before the reinforcements arrived; they had to be nearly here by now.

But the archer had drawn his sword and had charged, and was close; much closer than Harrian would have preferred to be ready to fend off the attack, especially as he would figure he'd need to develop a new tactic rather rapidly. Harrian stepped back, but too little, too late, as the man's sword flashed in the sunlight of midday in the bright south, and all Harrian could do was stand…

The man fell with a thud and a gurgle as an arrow arched through the smoke and hit him in the neck; though as Harrian lunged away from the falling soldier and his charging steed, the thought crossed his mind that it _hadn't _come from the direction of Imoen and her tree.

"Hold, friend! For I must assume that you are a friend if you fight against the soldiers of Yaga-Shura!" a clear voice ran through the settling smoke, and Harrian looked around to see another man on horseback, though this one was trotting towards him in a non-aggressive manner. An archer on foot stepped beside him, and Harrian figured this had to be the man who'd shot the mounted soldier.

"I will consider you are a friend if you shoot those who would run me into the dust," Harrian said civilly, and truthfully. He glanced around as yet more soldiers emerged from the trees and the smoke, in armour that was in a better condition than the Yaga-Shura soldiers' had been, and wearing the insignias of Il-Khan troops. These would have to have been the 'reinforcements' Imoen had seen.

The mounted officer laughed brightly, then dismounted, pulling off his helmet. He did not seem particularly concerned about any threat Harrian could present; this seemed reasonable considering the Bhaalspawn was currently outnumbered twenty to one. "What fight do you have with Yaga-Shura, o traveller who seems most adept at killing?" the officer asked, his eyes settling on the dead soldiers around him.

"I'm trying to kill the giant, actually," Harrian said, shrugging a little as he sheathed his sword and wondered where the others had got to. "Would it be too much of an assumption if I guessed you to be soldiers of a Captain Asrael?"

The officer laughed again. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with long red hair and well-chiselled features, and the sort of stance that tended to be found mostly amongst those used to giving orders. "You would be mostly correct. My men are soldiers of Captain Asrael. I, myself, _am _Captain Jastian Asrael. Though I wonder how you know of me."

"The Lady Melissan informed us of your presence in the wilderness," a voice from behind one of the small houses said, and they all looked to see Anomen and the others approaching. "We had hoped to find you, if at all possible."

Imoen gave Harrian an apologetic glance. "Sorry about the false alarm. I thought they were more of Yaga-Shura's men, come to cause a bit more chaos."

Captain Asrael gave her a deep nod. "An understandable assumption, and a most safe one in these uncertain times, good lady." He fixed Harrian with a look. "Though I feel to be at something of a disadvantage; you know my name, and yet yours is… a mystery to me."

Harrian nodded slowly. "I am Harrian Corias of Candlekeep; this is my sister, Imoen, the lady Jaheira, Lord Anomen Delryn of Athkatla, Haer'Dalis, and Sarevok Anchev." He gestured to each of his companions in turn, Asrael giving each of them a respectful nod at every introduction.

"I have heard of you, Lord Corias," Asrael said at last. "You are one of the better-known Bhaalspawns in these lands, and you and your allies the only Bhaalspawn faction known for your just deeds, rather than your villainy."

"The only one? I doubt that," Imoen said quietly, fixing Asrael with a piercing look.

The captain shrugged. "You say you seek to slay Yaga-Shura? That is good, especially if you have the Lady Melissan's blessing. Saradush is at the mercy of both the fire giant and that insane fool Gromnir; freedom is needed for those oppressed people."

"Gromnir's dead," Harrian said simply, shaking his head. "Yaga-Shura's the only one to worry about."

Asrael stared. "Gromnir? Dead? Are you sure?"

"He is dead," Sarevok confirmed. "And I should know; it was my blade that felled the madman."

"This is good news… of sorts. There are other men, decent men in his guard who should be able to defend the city for long enough. But killing Yaga-Shura is madness, Lord Corias; I apologise for my words, but it is true," Captain Asrael said slowly. "They say he is invincible; in battle I have seen it with my own eyes; my blade has crashed against his skin and left no mark."

"You've fought Yaga-Shura?" Jaheira asked slowly.

Asrael nodded. "Directly before his siege fell upon Saradush. I had been sent out by Gromnir with my forces for reconnaissance and, if possible, to meet Yaga-Shura in battle. It was a mere skirmish, but I fought him. He is a demon-warrior, I swear."

"No, just a Bhaalspawn." Harrian shook his head. "I know of this invulnerability; that is why I am here, in the Forest of Mir, instead of at the siege camp to try and destroy the giant. We are trying to find the source of his invulnerability and destroy it. We seek the temple near here…"

Asrael nodded. "I know of this temple, though my men have not ventured that far. We have merely been harassing Yaga-Shura's raiding parties all we can, trying to protect the people of this land as much as possible. Raising an army to combat the Bhaalspawn's has not been particularly easy, either."

"It may be needed. If we can remove his invulnerability, then an attack against his army might be necessary." Harrian frowned. "That is, if we have your assistance. There are some matters that no small group of individuals, no matter how powerful, can handle. A greater force is often called for."

"If your quest is to save Saradush and kill Yaga-Shura, then we are of the same goal. I shall help you, of course, Lord Corias," Captain Asrael said calmly, nodding. "Though we should discuss this at length in some other place. I shall leave some soldiers and healers at this village to help the people, but I invite you and your party to join me at my camp, where the rest of my force waits."

"I thought Gromnir sent you forth with only a small host of men?" Harrian asked, realising he had assumed, not known, as much.

"No. Gromnir might have wished to see me out of the city, but he was not fool enough to know I would be more useful with more men." Asrael shook his head. "I have a sizeable army; incomparable to Yaga-Shura's, but not a force to be dismissed."

"Then we welcome your help, and will welcome your camp," Harrian told him.

"Good! If you join us, it is only an hour's march from here," Asrael told them, mounting his horse once more and slipping his helm back on. "There we can talk of strategy in greater detail; and of the temple and Yaga-Shura's mountain fortress. But I will not dismiss any ally that comes my way in these dangerous times."

The party watched Asrael moved off, his other soldiers hurrying about the village, then they themselves moved to join the main host of the captain's foraging force.

"This is a most fortuitous encounter," Jaheira said quietly. "Though we should watch this Asrael carefully. He has no reason to turn against us, and we _do _share a common goal, but watch for any doubt he may hold of you because of your blood."

"He won't hold any," Imoen said, her expression plain, eyes downcast.

"How do you know?" Harrian asked quizzically.

Imoen glanced up at him, grim-faced. "Because he's a Bhaalspawn." She shrugged as everyone stared at her. "Don't ask me how I know. I just know. I could sense it in Saradush, with Bhaalspawn _everywhere_. But Asrael is a Child of Bhaal. Not as strong as one of the Five, perhaps, or you, Harrian, but on a par with Gromnir, I'd say. He's not going to turn on us for that. He's a Bhaalspawn."


	24. Chapter XXIV: The Forsaken

**Chapter XXIV: The Forsaken**

The campsite of the small army under the command of Jastian Asrael was large and, it seemed, one of the most secure spots the party had ever been able to enjoy. The Captain had brought them back to his private tent, summoned his officers, and then spent the late afternoon with them all discussing plans and the matters at hand. Reynald had been sceptical of the man's hospitality, at first; then he had begun to reason that there were few reasons for any man who had a force this great to tip-toe around seven – admittedly powerful – adventurers. They could be slain at any moment, hunted down, or simply been despatched upon meeting.

He had voiced his concerns subtly to Harrian, however, in a lull in the conversation. The thief had dismissed them, though not unkindly, and expressing a comprehension of Reynald's worry. But it was true that Asrael did not reek of deceit as many individuals still did to Reynald; though Torm might not have gifted him with any more divine senses, years of training still came through. And the man came across as nothing more than a soldier trying to serve his people. That was not a cause Reynald was keen to challenge him on; not when he was being so hospitable and helpful.

Asrael had pinpointed the old Temple of Bhaal on their maps, and bid the party to go there in the morning. It would be, he said, a much safer and more fitting option for the small group than seeking out Yaga-Shura's fortress in the Marching Mountains; that was what the Captain and his soldiers would occupy themselves with. They were veterans in combat against the Fire Giants, and experienced raiders. Anything they could find, they would bring back with them.

So, for that night, they would rest. Asrael had brought them the finest food the army had to offer; which could have been much more palatable, but Reynald was not overly surprised at the state of the food considering the circumstances. They had eaten without complaint, been given a spot to camp, and were promptly setting up their tents a little later in the night than they would have hoped, and perhaps after more wine than was wise.

"We should go to your pocket plane, brother, not linger here," Sarevok grumbled as he kicked a tent-peg to the ground, a hammer lost somewhere along the road. "There have to be safer places to make camp than in the centre of a group of rampaging soldiers looking for glory. I would not be surprised if there is a price on your head, put by the Five. Why would one man's greed not place us in their hands?"

"We'll keep watch," Harrian said. "And I'm not sleeping again in the plane. It gives me the creeps beyond belief." He turned to watch where Anomen was making a small campfire, kneeling down in front of the pile of sticks and trying to coax a spark out of the wood. "Oh, bloody hell, Imoen, give the boy a hand."

Imoen grinned, and gestured lightly to the would-be campfire. A shoot of flame sparked out of her finger, and the wood caught alight, prompting Anomen to leap back with surprise, and she chuckled at his reaction. "Just leave it to the pros, Ano."

"Some warning might be nice next time, my lady," Anomen said reproachfully, but wore a smirk on his face as he settled down.

Harrian rolled his eyes. "Right. Who'll take first watch?" His eyes lingered unsubtly on Haer'Dalis, Sarevok, and Reynald himself, making a particular point here.

Reynald sighed. "I shall. I do not think I shall sleep for a few hours as it is." _If at all, mayhaps. Who knows._

"Good fellow." Harrian grinned at him. "Wake me up for second. Let the spell-throwers get a full night's sleep." He managed to ignore the smirks exchanged by Anomen and Imoen. "Sarevok, you take third. Haer'Dalis, last."

"I have spells…"

"Of a different nature," Harrian interrupted, waggling a finger at him. "Besides, we have spells enough for you to be a little tired in the morning. You just have to get up a little earlier; that's all. You can cope."

Haer'Dalis' expression wavered, but then he just gave a deep bow. "If you say so, my raven," he murmured respectfully, before turning and slipping into his tent.

Reynald sat himself down on one of the large logs to be used as a seat around the campfire, sword by his side, cloak thrown over his shoulders, as he watched the others slip back to their tents and prepare for slumber. The south might have been cooler than even the lands around Athkatla, but a night chill was not strange in any part of the world, and he was glad of the flame and his cloak. It seemed hard to believe that a night ago they had been in Saradush. Days had flown by. Time appeared to be less and less on their side.

_It is about time we got **something **on our side. Maybe Captain Asrael's troops are the boon we get granted. Mortal matters, no aid from the Gods and no intervention from anything more powerful than Harrian_.

The Fallen Paladin sighed, taking up the short-sword he often wore on the right side of his belt, and beginning to spin it on the ground idly. The power of Harrian was not necessarily something to be mocked, though, he recognised. Their leader had changed in the last few days since the flight from Suldanessellar, bristling with a mixture between anger and fear that seemed to be bubbling below the surface. After Reynald had left the house of the dead man in the village that day, he had seen Harrian move about the buildings, slaying any of the Yaga-Shura soldiers he had encountered. The ease and skill with which he had moved, his nose for blood, all made Reynald begin to wonder to what extent the man was made for death; if he had anything else in him.

The thought was strange. Harrian laughed and lived; weaved his own pattern in life, and yet he was dominated by some force beyond Reynald's comprehension. Not quite the sway the Gods would have on mortals, but something darker and more sinister, though not necessarily less powerful. The blackness of it made Reynald shiver. It made him want to stand in the light again.

It had been said by his trainers at the Order that the hardest thing to do was to be the light and stand in the dark, to present that shining beacon to the shadows. Reynald was beginning to wonder the truth of that claim. He was finding it much more difficult to lurk halfway between shadow and light and not know on which side he belonged. To wish to be the light, but to have an innate dark within oneself that extinguished any flame? That was one aspect of Harrian's nature Reynald could understand. That day, he had stood over the body of a dying man and begged for the God to whom he had once devoted his life to hold back the tide of darkness for one being. The request had been denied, pushed to the side and ignored. Ignored. By a _God_. By the light.

_He _had been ignored by the light.

Reynald stood, suddenly needing space. He had no thought for keeping his watch as he hurtled away from the camp of the party, through the tents of the other soldiers, and into the woodlands just beyond the clearing Asrael's army was using as a base. Too many people, too much noise, too much of the buzz of life. He needed his freedom.

The nearby stream was cold and rewarding as he splashed into it, falling to his knees in the shadows and spraying chilly water onto his face in an empty hope of clearing his head. He felt the water soak up into his trousers and the bottom of his tunic, but didn't care anymore.

"Torm… He who I once served… and would serve _again _if you would only _let _me… why does my suffering continue?" He raised his eyes to the sky, mostly cloudy and with hardly any signs of stars above. "I ask not for an end to punishment. That is what I deserve, as a murderer many times over. But to send me no sign? To give me no guidance? To tell me _nothing _as I search to redeem myself? How can I be expected to walk down the right path?"

Reynald paused for a long moment, panting from both the hurried speech and the cold. A slow sneer began to creep across his face. "And I suppose, if I wander down the wrong path, unknowing, devoid of a guide or any means of knowing how to right my wrongs, I shall be punished further? Used as an example for other impetuous knights who make mistakes?" He chuckled mirthlessly. "Is this a _test_? Seeing how I act without your guidance? Allowing me to work out the desire of Gods on my own? I am living as the best man I know to be at this time, and yet I am given _nothing_. I helped save a city! I am striving to prevent a slaughter and stop a dark power from rising to the level of immortality! There is no greater way I could be serving the cause of righteousness than I am doing now!"

He stood up, the anger burning within him, slow to catch light but always spectacular in the explosions. "If this is a test, then I have had _enough_!" Reynald shouted at the heavens. "I have done all that you ask in this time, Torm! I have devoted my life to saving others! And I do not _expect _to be returned to my former status – I only want a _single damn sign_!"

"You killed men," a voice from behind him declared ominously, and Reynald whirled around instantly in shock and surprise, only to see Anomen emerging from the darkness. "And you woke me up."

The anger drained from Reynald far quicker than it had arrived, and he regarded his friend anxiously. "I… I apologise, Anomen. I did not realise I was so loud."

"You were," Anomen said, moving towards the bank of the river. "But there is no need to apologise. I did not realise you were in so much pain."

"Did you expect me to be _happy _at my predicament?" Reynald snarled, then bit the words off as they escaped from his lips. He turned away quickly in shame, wringing water from his tunic evasively.

"No. I had thought you were more… decided in your path than this, however." Anomen walked into the shallows to stand beside him, taking in a deep breath of the night air. "You know the Gods are not accountable to you."

Reynald nodded slowly. "Yes."

"You know that we must serve them and do their bidding? That they will not answer our every whim?" Anomen turned to face him. "And you know that it is not the intention of Helm, Tyr, or even Torm to make a subject suffer unnecessarily."

"And now _you _deign to know what the Gods think," Reynald mumbled bitterly. "You know that I killed men."

"Many, in fact, yes. The Order told me, and your Fall was known as an even greater shock than Anarg's had been." Anomen shrugged a little. "And so soon after; I was not of the Order at the time, but I spoke to Sir Keldorn. You sent half of the knights reeling at your actions. Sometimes that is a good thing, a needed jolt to reality, but somehow I think you may have been somewhat extreme in your deeds."

"Somehow I think the same," Reynald mumbled in the same angry tone. "It was fury and it was death that brought me to this path. I stumbled into a situation full of anger and without evaluating it correctly. I slaughtered men who did not deserve death. I even forget how many, now. Eleven? Twelve? It almost ceases to matter."

"It was more than fury and death. It was love," Anomen intoned gravely.

"Yes. Love." Reynald spat the word. "That which destroys us all. I wish you every happiness with Imoen, Anomen, but I bid you to watch that anger which I know is within you. For love may be the undoing of each and every one of us."

"I prefer to think of it as our strength. But our greatest strengths are often our greatest weaknesses."

"How true, and yet how useless a comment. I am sorry, Anomen, but I would prefer not to discuss abstract notions," Reynald told him bluntly. "You think I just killed a dozen thieves? You think my Fall goes as far as that?"

"You joined with Anarg. You supported a group that was slaving and murdering. When you could have repented, you fled into the arms of more darkness. Torm is less forgiving of that, I think," Anomen mused, taking his hard words with ease.

"And you think that all I did with Anarg and the slavers was wring my hands and try to rein them in? You don't rein a man like Anarg in. He indulged in killing and slavery, and although it was my cautious counsel that allowed me to rise to his second in command, you do _not _become the second in command of such a group without enough 'respectable' actions of your own," Reynald muttered, sinking back into the river, cupping water in his hands and splashing it over his head.

Anomen stared at him for a long moment. "What do you mean?"

"A small village north of Athkatla? The _Divine Thunder _raided it two weeks before you came to us. Anarg was in business in the city, and so I supervised." Reynald's face darkened. "Of course, I allowed as many of the children as I could to flee in time, but I killed and directed the killing of those who resisted, and captured the rest, sending them off into a life of captivity." He looked up at Anomen, who wore a mask of horror. "What? You thought I indulged in no unsavoury practice? I was a _slaver_, Anomen. I was not the noble diamond in the rough. My actions were as vicious as those of the basest of men. And for what? Not gold. Not power. Not the thrill of the game. No, simply because I thought I had _nowhere else to go_. The Fallen Paladins were my family, my Order, my Gods. They were all I had."

"You had Torm."

Reynald shook his head. "No. Torm wanted no part of me. If I had gone back after the mess with Celestine, perhaps I could have been welcomed. But indulging in evil afterwards? No." He sighed deeply, staring up at the sky. "I have been such a fool. I thought that just helping you save Suldanessellar, when you could have done it without my help, could redeem me. I thought it would make me worthy of a guide back to Torm." He snorted slightly. "I belong in prison, at least. In the Abyss, ultimately."

"You are a different man now, Reynald," Anomen said uselessly.

Reynald snorted again. "There was no transformation. And it has been months, Anomen, not years. _Sarevok _has more of an excuse for his actions than I do. I have been living a delusion since you have known me, trying to atone and yet pretending to myself that my actions were not as terrible as they were. No damned wonder Torm refused me. How can I redeem myself if I am denying for what I require redemption? And I didn't even have a reasonable motive – power, or gold. Those are habits of men and shall remain thus forever. All I did was done out of a desire to _belong somewhere_. To no longer flounder in my own darkness. I embraced _their _darkness and I revelled in it because I was _not alone_."

"You are not alone now. The party is with you. And we won't bring you into more darkness. I can't promise light, but I can promise that," Anomen said in a rush, grabbing Reynald's shoulder and pulling the Fallen Paladin to his feet.

"The party. Aye. The first sign of righteousness I have seen in months, and even that is tainted." He turned to face Anomen at the cleric's slight, shocked gasp. "What? The blood of Bhaal is struggling for dominance in Harrian _and _Imoen, and don't tell me you haven't seen it. I have faith in them both. I trust them both. I believe that they can win. But I am not going to close my eyes and pretend, as you pretend, that nothing will ever change."

"I do not pretend. I am aware of what must be done if… if Bhaal's blood takes a stronger hold," Anomen said quietly, looking sick.

"I have no doubt you intend to do all you can. But Harrian is your friend. Imoen is your lover. And I will not see them sink to even further depths than I stumbled in. Because I don't think there's a way out with the Bhaaltaint," Reynald replied grimly. "If they fall to their blood…"

"Then they must fall. I know." There was hardly any light, with the stars and moons having to make do with only the slightest gaps in the clouds, but Reynald didn't need any to know the colour had drained from Anomen's face.

"I don't like it any more than you do. But it is our duty. I am sure that Jaheira knows the same, though wishes she didn't. Sarevok and Haer'Dalis are irrelevant," Reynald told him gently.

"Jaheira knows. I… we have… sort of spoken." Anomen shook his head. "It is a sort of silent agreement. She knows."

Reynald sighed a little. "Maybe it should not be silent. It is not something to take lightly, not a duty to be fulfilled on 'knowing'."

Anomen took a step back, looking more angry than sick now. "You are saying that we should swear an oath to slay our friends if they fall to their taint?"

"That is _exactly _what I am saying," Reynald hissed. "Who else will? The other Bhaalspawn shall revel in their power or try to kill them in exactly the same way as before. Other innocents have no power. The Gods are staying out of the Prophecy. Who else is there? It is our duty, and ours alone. To keep them on the light by any means possible, to aid them in this battle against the Five and other dark Bhaalspawn, but to kill them if they threaten to cause the Realms more death. Our feelings are _nothing _compared to the lives that could be at stake." He reached out and grabbed Anomen's hand, raising it to the faint sliver of moonlight that made it's way through and gripping hard. "Swear with me, brother."

Anomen's expression was wavering, but he swallowed hard and his voice was firm when he finally spoke. "I swear it. I pray to Helm that it will not come about, but I swear that if it does, I shall not stay my hand."

A grim silence fell upon them, until Reynald finally released Anomen. "Perhaps we should not tell Jaheira," he said at last, a hint of levity actually creeping into his voice. "I doubt she would take kindly to such an oath."

"I believe her oaths are to herself and no other. She does not share our… piety." Anomen stumbled over the words. "But you were wrong about one thing, Reynald. The Gods are not totally powerless in this. Ao has decreed that they do not become involved, but there are… loopholes."

"Loopholes?" Reynald looked dubious, and surprised at Anomen's knowledge. "What sort? What influence? How do you know this?"

"I have my… ways of knowing things," Anomen mumbled. "But the Gods wish the outcome of the Prophecy to be favourable to _them_. As you can imagine, this leads to a certain conflict of interest."

Reynald shook his head. "No. _Tell _me, Anomen. This party is seeped in individual secrets, and now is not the time to harbour our own knowledge. What if you fall tomorrow, and there is something I should know, for the good of all?"

"I have fallen already. You remember Hell." Anomen's face was expressionless.

Reynald blinked. "The spell nearly killed you."

Anomen raised an eyebrow. "Nearly? It _did _kill me." He shook his head as Reynald gaped in disbelief. "Helm saved me. Brought me back to life. Broke almost every decree set down by Ao, but it was done. Because I am needed here." He looked away, taking a few deep breaths. "That is why that oath was sworn. Because I am needed here. And Imoen cannot take precedence. I have a duty here."

"Aye. This is our duty," Reynald agreed, and took a deep, wavering breath. "This is _my _duty. To see this through with them, or to see them dead. A morbid one, but I shall not go on believing that my sins can be waved away. I am damned. There is nothing more to it."

"I do not believe anyone is confirmed damned until their time on this world is over," Anomen said quietly. "But, for now, it is a start."


	25. Chapter XXV: Conversations with Dead Peo...

**Chapter XXV: Conversations With Dead People**

"Am I the only one feeling freaked out by all of this mist?" Imoen asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder as they stepped through the spongy undergrowth of the marshes their map – in the safe and guiding hands of Jaheira, for once – told them the Temple of Bhaal they sought was located.

"It is mist, sister," Sarevok murmured from where he took up the rear of the group. "It is nothing to concern you. I would be far more worried by the intense aura of our father's power that even the gnats seem to be able to sense."

"Yep. I haven't been bitten in an age," Harrian declared with false cheer. "So let's just make the most of it, get in there, beat up whatever's in our way, and have done with it, aye?"

"You reduce everything to the physical, brother," Sarevok told him slowly, shaking his head as he lifted a plate-encased foot carefully over a fallen log Anomen had just stumbled on seconds before. "Our father's power is not of that kind any more."

"_Bhaal's_ power is not of any kind any more. And don't call him 'our father'. If nothing else, he's not yours anymore; there's no taint within you," Harrian told him quickly.

"Perhaps. But what about the power he holds in your heads?" Sarevok asked, looking between Harrian and Imoen with the sort of expression a scholar might wear when presented with something that could produce a vague intrigue.

"That's nothing as long as we fight it," Imoen mumbled, shivering a little.

"But not all of the spawn of Bhaal fight it," Anomen pointed out quietly, joining this discussion for the first time. "And if they did, we wouldn't be here right now. Bhaal clearly _does _have power, because he's causing these disasters here, in Tethyr, right this very second."

"The great hound is right," Haer'Dalis said, gesturing to Sarevok. "Power is not always quite so limited to a mortal and physical shape. It might be that the power we have encountered most regularly in the past is bound to such a condition, but now we are talking of matters of Gods and immortality and vast death. Power shall run anywhere it needs to if it wishes to exercise itself."

"Like a dog. A wonderful analogy, bard," Reynald mumbled dryly.

"Is it possible for us all to stop this bickering? Ultimately, we know nothing of what will happen or what the power shall do. So perhaps it is best we focus on the task at hand," Jaheira commented, giving them all a glare.

Silence fell rapidly, even the great Sarevok not planning on risking Jaheira's wrath needlessly, and as they moved onward through the marshes, eventually a large stone building became visible through the trees ahead of them, and they reached the clearing the ramshackle old temple stood in.

"Looks cosy," Harrian murmured, raising an eyebrow as he stepped forward, noting the symbol of Bhaal above the door. "Not quite as civilised as the old temple of Bhaal by the Friendly Arm Inn, hey?" He glanced at Jaheira and Imoen.

"Nor as ironic," Imoen murmured.

"Are we really expecting _anything _to be found in here that –"

Anomen's hurried voice was cut off as a figure emerged from the mist in front of them, tall, cloaked, and imposing. There was a long silence during which everyone went to grab their weapons, but the figure raised a hand to them.

"Stay your weapons," it commanded in a voice that was both authoritative and yet not unkind, and the figure raised a hand to lower the hood that hid its face.

If Harrian _had _drawn his sword, he would have dropped it in surprise at that moment. "G-Gorion?" The name escaped his lips as a strangled whisper, and his eyes were wide as he looked at his dead foster father in amazement.

"It is I, Harrian, my old ward," Gorion declared quietly. He looked just as he had the day he died; worn grey robes fit for travelling, piercing and craggy features, silver hair and beard trimmed neatly, though clearly not fully corporeal. "Dead, yes, but one can struggle back to the land of the living if the need is great enough… for a time."

"There's something you need to tell me? What am I doing wrong?" Harrian asked in a rush, his eyes shining as he took a step forward, all strength seemingly drained from his body. "Gorion, you know I have _always _needed your guidance."

"Needed, yes. Followed… I thought so, for a time. But now it seems clear that my guidance was not enough," Gorion said, looking away and shaking his head. "Which is why I am here now."

"Not enough? What… father, how have I failed you?" A note of panic now crept into Harrian's voice. "I listened to all of your words, remembered every piece of advice you gave me. I have done everything I can to strive to be the best man I can on this world. It's… it's not easy, but it's…"

"You failed," Gorion declared, his voice now thunderous. Harrian stepped back. "Perhaps I am to blame, for not telling you of your heritage sooner. Perhaps it is my fault for not guiding you through these problems. But I had hoped that my words, my guidance, throughout _all _of your youth, would be taken more seriously!"

By now, Harrian looked very small. His arms were ramrod straight by his side, his head bowed, and his voice shook as he spoke. "I… I ask again, f-father… how have I disappointed you?"

"You have succumbed to your taint, child!" Gorion snapped. "I had thought you strong enough to resist it, but you fell, as all the weak Children have. You ignored my words, and now you cut a swathe of murder behind you everywhere that you go!"

"I have killed, yes, but I… I killed to… protect others. To prevent more deaths. Like those men yesterday; it saved the lives of many villagers. I come here to save the lives of those at Saradush," Harrian mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground before him. He looked like a cowed schoolboy.

Jaheira stepped forward, clearly shaken almost as much as Harrian, but with a shot of steel in her voice as she reached his side. She did not reach out for him, but he seemed to gain a certain amount of strength by her mere presence. "I know not why you are here, _Gorion_, but it does not seem to be helping," she said, her voice low and threatening.

Gorion raised his head and fixed her with a look. "Of course. I should have known you would get involved. Jaheira, it warms my heart to see that you still stand by the boy. But you, too, have failed in your task; of keeping him in control of his taint. Your feelings for him have blinded you to his true nature, and even now you forget why you were here to begin with."

"No…" Harrian looked up, his voice still small. "She's my guide as much as ever. She's my guide because you can't be."

"And yet you are destined to destroy her, and all of these others here, as you have destroyed those in the past," Gorion declared ominously.

"Harrian has destroyed none in the past, and I shall risk my own destruction if it means I shall see this through," Jaheira said with certainty.

"Truly?" Gorion raised an eyebrow, and the air beside him whirled, growing darker, until another shape came into being.

All of the colour drained from Jaheira's face. "_Khalid_?" Her voice held all the same horror it had back in Irenicus' dungeon, finding his mangled body on the torture rack; if possible, though, now there was a deeper pain in there.

"J-Jaheira? Is… is that you?" the red-headed half-elf asked, stepping out of the gloom to appear, fully formed, before them. Harrian dropped back, looking as if he might vomit.

"No… this cannot be…" Jaheira shook her head, forcing her gaze away.

"Why did you d-do it, my love? Why did you k-kill me? Lead me to my d-death? Why?" Khalid raised his hands pleadingly, a mixture of questioning and accusation in his voice.

"I did… _not kill you_…" The strength in Jaheira's voice waxed and waned, and her breathing grew heavier. "I did not lead you to your death. Following Harrian was our duty to Gorion, and you would not have evaded it any more than I would have!"

"I h-had to convince _you_, at f-first, to become Harrian's g-guardians. But when G-Gorion died and it was j-just us, it was _y-you _who took the lead in g-guiding the boy." Khalid shook his head sorrowfully, looking at the ground for a moment before he met her gaze accusingly. "I stood b-by then, but now I m-must wonder… d-did you love him even then? Is that why you were so intent on f-following him?"

"_No_." Jaheira's voice had regained the strength of moments before, but it was steel no longer; more wood on the verge of rotting through. "Khalid, I _loved you_. My heart shall _always love you_. But you were gone. Gone forever, and Harrian…"

"I am not even cold in the _ground_!" Khalid snapped, pointing at her angrily. "And you are with _him_." The stammer had fled from his voice. In life it had only ever done so when he had been alone with Jaheira or in the great moments of fury that hardly ever gripped the docile half-elf. "You never loved me! You were _relieved _when I died!"

Jaheira shrank back, her expression aghast. "Khalid… no. I loved you… please… understand that I loved you…"

"Stop this! Stop this madness!" Imoen's voice finally shot into the scene as the pink-haired mage stepped forward. "This can't be real! Gorion, you'd never say those things, and Khalid neither! Stop these tricks!"

Gorion turned to face her, his expression black. "Imoen. My last hope. How I had prayed that you would pull through. But you, too, are a disappointment."

"I can live with that," Imoen murmured, though the words were forced past her lips and she stiffened.

"You can? The world may not. You have so much within you, Imoen. So much power. So much strength. And yet you deny it; you cower from your true potential, and because you are not seizing what is in front of you, others are dying all around." Gorion shook his head. "I had thought that raising you so you were unknowing of your taint might help you. It is why I gave you to Winthrop's care. But you could _end _this suffering of the prophecies, Imoen, if you did not cower so from your true self."

Imoen straightened up a little, the mask of resolution fading. "My… true self?"

"You are stronger than this; stronger than any of them," Gorion declared, stepping forward urgently. "There are eight, and you are the one who…"

Gorion stopped as there was a whirling of air, and a slingshot flew through his form harmlessly. He straightened up to face Anomen, who held his sling in his hand, an expression of fury on his face, standing next to Reynald and Sarevok, both of whom looked equally resolute. Haer'Dalis lurked a short way behind.

"You think you are untouched?" Gorion asked the three of them. He glanced at Sarevok, then to Harrian. "My ward, you let my murderer walk alongside you? Have I tumbled so far in your esteem that my slayer becomes one of your vaunted companions?"

"No…" Harrian, from where he stood, watching all of the proceedings emptily, could only mumble. "He… he's useful…"

"A slave of the taint, given a second chance. I cannot blame him for what he became. He is a beast, and shall always be such. I expected more of you." Gorion turned to face Sarevok. "But a beast is the true nature of the taint my ward has fallen to."

"Conjurors' tricks do not concern me, old man. I cut you down before, and am willing to cut you down again if you do not stand aside and let us go on our way," Sarevok intoned gravely, his expression blank as he eyed Gorion.

"This charade is growing more tedious," Reynald agreed.

Gorion raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps." The air swirled around him once more, and three more figures came into being, each more different than the last.

"Anomen? My brother? Is that you?"

Anomen's expression grew stiff as he faced the shape of his sister, then turned back to Gorion. "No. Enough tricks. I shall _not stand for_…" His voice trailed off weakly, and all he could do was stare back at the form of Moira.

"I am here because I am murdered, Anomen. I am murdered, and justice has not been done," his sister said quietly, stepping towards him, more pleading than angry as the past ghosts had been.

"It was _Father _that killed you, my sister!" Anomen declared, his voice shuddering. "There is justice done! He lies in prison this very moment! He shall never be free again for your murder!"

"No, my brother. I may have been killed by another, but it is you who murdered me."

"This is a _game_! A trick of the mind!" Anomen howled, whirling on Gorion's shape angrily. "I shall _not _be toyed with _any _longer!"

Moira stepped towards him again. "I stayed to care for Father, as you asked me to. All those years, I laboured as you fled from him. And then the hand that killed me was his! You left me in the home of my killer!"

Anomen stared at the sky, eyes screwed shut as he took a deep, shuddering breath. "I did _not _fail you, sister…Moira, please, I loved you. You didn't want to leave Father! No matter how often I asked you to!"

"No. You lie, my brother. You didn't want me to leave. And now I am dead at your hands," Moira's shape whispered accusingly. Anomen did not react, and for a long time, his only movement was the whispering of his lips, running through a prayer to Helm.

The second shape moved towards Reynald slowly, in the shape of a young girl, dressed in straggly clothing. "You… sir knight? My killer? I do not even know your name… and yet, here I stand, before you."

Reynald's expression was ashen as he turned to face the girl. "Your name wasn't important at the time," he said, his voice a cold and strong as he could make it. In the circumstances, that meant that there was a clear wavering. "Though do not think that I have forgotten your face."

"No. I should hope not. I hope it taunts you every night before you go to sleep. I hope that you cannot live through your happy life any more without remembering my screams – and the screams of the hundred others in my village that you put to flame and to the sword," the girl accused, walking around him slowly.

"I have killed people. I do not deny it. But you, are _not _the girl I killed," Reynald told her, shifting to face her resolutely.

The girl smiled slowly. "No. But does it matter? Your sword cut through me when I pulled a knife on one of your comrades. In self-defence. He was seizing my brother for slavery, and when I threw myself at him, you cut me down with your blade."

"I do not pretend to be proud of it," Reynald mumbled, now facing straight ahead, forcing himself to avoid eye contact. "And it _is _something that haunts me. So your presence here merely shows this to be more of a charade." But, despite his calm words, the others could see his hands balled into fists, and the tilt of his clenched jaw that dictated just how hard it ward for him to maintain control.

The third and final shape approached Sarevok, and was a more familiar sight to Harrian, Jaheira and Imoen than either of the other two had been. "Sarevok. My lover, my lord. Sarevok…"

Sarevok straightened up, and eyed her dubiously. "Tamoko." He gave a deep nod.

"He who I loved. He who sent me to my death. I loved you, and yet your desires were for godhood, not for me. And even I could not fight off the madness, the lust for power, that gripped you," she said, resting a hand on his forearm.

Sarevok stepped away, looking shocked. "I… I did what I had to do! What was necessary to…"

"To what? Attain godhood? And you failed at that. Which is why you stand here now, normal as any other man, next to the Bhaalspawn who slew me after you sent me against him." She gestured to Harrian. "I died for you, Sarevok, because I loved you. And then you died, but now you have a second chance. I am glad, my love… but you are still bound by that which slew you before."

"I am free of the Bhaaltaint."

"But not your ambition."

Reynald stepped forward, eyeing Sarevok. "This is a trick, my friend. They are all mad illusions. I would not listen."

"The dark knight's illusion spoke truly," Tamoko whispered to Sarevok. "And you know that I do too."

"I know." Sarevok stared at the ground, then slowly drew his Warblade. "I know you speak the truth. I know what I was, what I wanted, and why I sent you to your death. I know what I am now. You are telling me nothing new." Then he struck with his sword.

Unlike the slingshot, which had merely passed through Gorion, Sarevok's blade struck true, hitting the form of Tamoko in the shoulder. She let out an inhuman scream, shifting her shape, and eventually turning into nothing more than a shadow, shifting and inhuman.

"Damn you all!" Harrian swore, galvanised into action by Sarevok's blow, and his sword was in his hand in moments, swinging it at Khalid. It hit the form of the half-elf instantly, and he, too, shifted into the monster Tamoko had. "Gorion would _never _say those things! He _knows _the struggle of this blood! And Khalid…" His voice trailed off, and he eyed the wraith that had taken his mentor's form as the rest of the party also moved into battle. "Khalid would understand."

He struck, slaying the shadow fiend, and then chaos was let loose.


	26. Chapter XXVI: Ghost Stories

**Chapter XXVI: Ghost Stories**

It was late that night when the party slumped back to the army's campsite, returning to their tents and parting without a word. Hardly anything had been said in the long walk back from the Bhaal temple. They had met the old, insane witch who had raised Yaga-Shura, and heard her promise to remove his invulnerability if they could find his heart. As payment, she wanted hers back. Nobody dared ask the pertinent questions of the hows and the whys.

Apparently, both were kept in Yaga-Shura's home in the Marching Mountains. When they had returned to the campsite, Captain Asrael was apparently still gone with his group of soldiers, and so a lieutenant had sent him a message by bird to inform him of his new objective in the fire giant's mountain fortress.

So, for now, all that was important was sleep. Keeping watch did not seem to be on Harrian's mind as he slumped into his tent, joined by Jaheira, and the others similarly withdrew for slumber – save Sarevok and Reynald, who wordlessly started up the fire and sat down on opposite sides of it.

"I had not thought they would be so shaken by the encounters today," Sarevok intoned grimly, rubbing his hands together for warmth. He had shed his armour, and now wore a neat leather tunic that stretched at the shoulders; it had been loaned to him by one of the soldiers, but was made for a slightly smaller man.

"A pack of lies can sometimes be more painful than one would think. They know that they have been fed a ruse. I think they just need to sleep it off. It can't have been easy to have dead loved ones come back and accuse you of murdering them," Reynald mused, scratching at his chin as he tossed another block of wood onto the flames.

"As you said, though, their sufferings were lies. By the time our turns came, we knew that it was nothing more than smoke and mirrors, but they hit us with the truth. Presumably it is why they kept us till last," Sarevok said, shaking his head.

"You seemed to deal with the truth rather well," Reynald said dryly. "I almost wish I had had the sense to skewer my own vision."

"Why repeat the past?" Sarevok replied.

Reynald stiffened a little, but knew Sarevok wasn't directly trying to anger or offend him. "I was given no charade of my dead brother accusing me of killing him. There was no pretence that this was really a ghost at this point. But the words were true, and I make no excuses for my actions."

"How many did you kill?" Sarevok asked quietly. This was the voice of a man deep in contemplation, not of a killer exchanging tales.

"I forget. Is that worrying?" Reynald shrugged. "Around a dozen first. When I lost Torm's favour. A group of thieves who had done me no wrong, that I slaughtered in a blind rage. Then numerous villagers I was taking for slaving. Their blood on my hands, and I ordered others to kill and capture them. No," he chuckled wryly, "I make no excuses."

Sarevok grunted quietly, his eyes fixed on the fire. "I was a slave to ambition. I desired godhood above all else, so much that I shed that which made me human – friends, family, mortal wishes. At the time, I thought that made me stronger. Ultimately, it just led to my death." He straightened up. "I know why I did what I did. I can remember the whisperings of Bhaal in my ear. And a day ago, I would have still held the same desire for power as I did back then."

"What has changed?" Reynald queried, raising an eyebrow.

Sarevok paused for a long moment. "Bhaal does not whisper to me any more. I do not have to be the same man. I have been given a second chance at a new life. Everything that abomination pretending to be Tamoko said was true. I died for my ambition, and for listening to a dead God." He took a deep breath before shaking his head. "I do not wish to die as I did before. I thought that no longer having Bhaal whispering in my ear would ensure that history did not repeat itself. But perhaps it is not as simple as that; for Harrian is not a slave to murder. Perhaps it is something… of me, and not just of the taint."

"How many did _you _kill?" Reynald asked quietly. "In your search for godhood?"

"Gorion. Other Bhaalspawn. Those who stood in my way. I did not bring the Sword Coast to its knees, did not raze villages and torment townsfolk, but I am not without my sins. I, too, lose count," Sarevok replied simply.

"Do you feel sorry for that? Does it keep you awake at night?"

Sarevok shifted. "I do not know. I believe it is the absence of my Bhaaltaint which means I can not look back on the death and smile at the blood of it all. I am not the same man I was, and cannot pretend that I am. But I killed only those I needed to further my own cause. I did not slay wantonly."

"You caused the death of others, though, with your actions," Reynald pointed out.

"Are you trying to goad me into guilt, dark knight?" Sarevok challenged.

"No," Reynald said calmly. "I am merely trying to discover the depths of your discomfort. Because something is eating away at your soul."

"My soul is fine, but I needed to borrow a part of someone else's to return to life, and am now quite attached to living. I do not want to die a failed tyrant as I did before. I may have manipulated Harrian into the deal, but I cannot help but believe that there is a reason for my being here." Sarevok sighed deeply. "There are matters of the taint that I can understand like nobody can."

"Harrian and Imoen feel it, but they are under its sway. You know of its affects whilst still being… unbiased," Reynald said, nodding.

"Exactly, dark knight. The Prophecies shall be fulfilled. I just do not know by whom, and that is worth staying here for. If nothing else, it is somewhere that I can do something beyond the petty until I decide my path in life." Sarevok shook his head a little. "We should find ourselves a copy of the Prophecy. I feel it would guide us much better… and I have studied them at length, but my memory is faded somewhat."

"It might let us know what to expect," Reynald agreed.

"I think we shall need that."

In Harrian and Jaheira's tent, there was far less of productive conversation going on. They were both snug under the blankets, she curled up next to him, lying in a silence that would have been comfortable had it not been for the dark thoughts in their minds.

"You know it was all a lie," Jaheira said at last, sliding her hand up his chest and around his shoulders to play with the hair at the back of his neck. "Gorion would not say such things. You have not fallen prey to your taint."

"I know. I suppose that's why I haven't gone raving mad by now," Harrian murmured, looking into her eyes. "I just… I wish I could talk to him. Really find out what he thinks. I've wanted to do that for so long, and I thought, today… that I'd get my chance. Then it came crashing down."

"He _would_ be proud of you," she whispered. "You have done so much, come so far. Won battles against your taint we wouldn't believe. Coped without having a soul. You could be the only chance there is of stopping the Five. Succeed or not, the fact that you are the most powerful Bhaalspawn left fighting on the side of good must mean something of your achievements." She kissed him lightly. "And I believe in you."

Harrian sighed slightly, closing his eyes. "That's enough." He took a few deep breaths, then continued. "And that spectre of Khalid was a lie, too."

"I know," Jaheira said, the roles reversed. "Now, I am more angry with those wraiths for daring to assume his form. The words he said… it is an argument I have had in my own mind times before. Seeing it happen in true form may be disconcerting, but it is nothing new."

"Khalid would understand," Harrian mumbled, though he wasn't sure if he was only trying to convince himself. "He would want you to be happy, not mourn for him forever. We are not dishonouring his memory."

"Another argument I have already had in my own mind," Jaheira said, but nodded slightly. "He is not forgotten. I know you have not shed him from your memory, and you know that… I have not either."

Harrian blinked. "I wouldn't expect you to." He sighed, shifting to sit upright a little. "Jaheira, for the longest time in our knowing each other, you were more mentor than friend, or anything more. I respected you, I liked you, and I valued your advice. But there was that distance. And then Khalid died, and I realised that… that you suffer the same pain as the rest of us."

"And, back in Athkatla, you helped me. However our relationship is resolved, for that I am eternally grateful. You… reached out to help me, when I would not have asked for your aid." Jaheira smiled wryly. "Pain, I felt. But pride was there too."

Harrian nodded slowly. "The last time I saw Khalid was… was in Irenicus' dungeon." He took her hand gently, stroking her palm with his thumb. "I do not know how far into our imprisonment it was. I was being moved from cage to cage at the time, though, all for the better access of various torture techniques…" His voice trailed off as he shuddered a little, and there was a long pause as Jaheira shifted closer to him whilst he regained his composure.

"Once, I was in the same cell as Khalid," he continued. "For no longer than a day – maybe it was an attempt to break my resolve, to see how my companions were being treated. And I was only half-conscious for most of the time there, so I remember only small images. Khalid did his best for me, but I could see then that… Irenicus wasn't being kind."

Harrian stopped, looking away, then swallowed heavily. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to bring it back like this… I'm explaining it all wrong… my point is that we were both aware that we weren't necessarily all going to make it out of here alive. Or any of us. But Khalid seemed to believe more fervently that I would last longer; and that was when I swore I would stand by you, protect you, help you… do whatever I could."

Jaheira's eyes were closed, her head bowed, but after a few deep, shuddering breaths, she curled up next to him again. "I think you have fulfilled your vow." She rested her head on his shoulder. "You can carry on, however, by, forever… being you."

"No taint can make me walk away from you," Harrian whispered, his eyes closed too as he kissed her forehead.

In the other tents, there was only slumber. Haer'Dalis slept the quiet sleep of one whose fate was tied to another power in the world, no longer caught up in the strings of Harrian's fate; an ally, but no longer quite the same comrade. And Anomen and Imoen… they simply slept. For lies lacking a kernel of truth can be chased away, and cryptic messages so abstract they seem irrelevant ignored. This made them less haunted than the others; not to mention that young love is so very good at shielding those it affects.


	27. Chapter XXVII: A Cunning Plan

_A/N: My apologies, friends, for the delay. I had university. Then I had NaNoWriMo (the results of which may pop up here). And now I'm back to Sowing Chaos. Though I have a good buffer of a good few chapters, thus provided I stay focused, you should be seeing a few more popping up._

_I don't like this chapter._

**Chapter XXVII: A Cunning Plan**

"This is a bit mad, Harrian, even by your standards," Imoen mumbled as she tugged at the royal blue tunic that was a part of the disguise. "Honestly, if this goes even slightly wrong, we're going to have the largest army in the south attacking us. All at once."

"Then it'll have to not go wrong, will it?" Harrian didn't seem primed to give a particularly lucid or reassuring answer as the four of them rode down the track to Saradush, distracted as he was by the metal helmet he was unused to wearing and kept fiddling with.

"We do not need to get _too _close. Once we are amongst the army, we simply need to evade notice until Asrael makes his move," Sarevok said gruffly and dismissively.

They were all on horses borrowed from the captain, wearing uniforms of the soldiers of Yaga-Shura that the army had collected during its lengthy campaign in Tethyr. Sarevok was clad in the heavy armour of a foot soldier, Jaheira in only a slightly lighter version of his garb, Imoen in the unrestrictive uniform of an archer in the army, and Harrian looked exceptionally uncomfortable in the light chain of an officer. At the very least, though, they looked important enough to not be bothered whilst few enough to be overlooked, and that was the intention of the plot.

"And at the very least locate Yaga-Shura once we are there," Jaheira reminded them coolly. "Even if we do not approach him, once Asrael, Anomen and Reynald are here with the diversion, we will need to seek him out. It would be best to not have to cross a battlefield to do that."

Harrian shifted in his saddle, unused to the slight restriction of his vision by the helmet, and glanced at the sun hovering on the horizon. "I reckon we've got maybe half an hour. Plenty of time."

"Not if we get stopped," Imoen mumbled, a little fatalistically. "Then we're going to need a lot of time to either explain or fight our way out."

"We cannot fight thousands," Sarevok said simply. "In case of disaster, I would suggest Harrian whisks us away to his pocket plane to escape a quick death of many swords."

"And what about the others? It'll be a suicide if they attack and we're not set to slay Yaga-Shura. We're running this entire plan off the basis of Asrael's army being enough of a distraction for the army for us to get to the giant, and then for killing Yaga-Shura and his generals being enough to give Asrael's army the upper hand so as to make them flee or scatter them," Imoen replied in a rush. "If we disappear, it'll be a massacre."

"Better their death than ours, and Harrian's. Does the fate of the south lie in _their _hands, sister?"

"It will tonight," Harrian said curtly. "Because we need them all to be successful. Six of us isn't enough to wipe out an army, quite frankly. So the fate of the south and the realms lies in many hands. If we get foiled, we're going to need to find some way to stick around until Asrael attacks."

"'Stick around', as there are hundreds of soldiers trying to kill us. Unless you can turn invisible, Harrian, which I think only Imoen can do, this could be a problem," Jaheira pointed out.

"Hey, invisibility, there's an idea," Harrian said to Imoen brightly. "You could do a spell for all of us…?"

"I think they'll have clerics to see through it, Harrian," Imoen dismissed the idea quickly.

"We won't _need _it," Jaheira said with certainty. "Because if we stride into that camp looking as if we know exactly what we're doing, even though we don't – and you should have no problems there, Harrian – then we will not be questioned." She ignored Harrian's faintly indignant expression.

"I have it all in hand. I'm really not as incompetent as you suggest," he replied wryly. "Whenever my plans go right, you take credit for them or forget that they ever happened." He straightened up on his horse, giving the reins the lightest tug to stop his rather handsome chestnut gelding from making the foray in the direction of the grass by the road that he'd been aiming for throughout the trip.

"Like which plans?" Jaheira asked lightly.

"All that hubbub with the Nether Scroll. We got it from the Cowled Wizards."

"You set off every alarm in the place, and only escaped because they didn't think you'd be mad enough to jump out of a window," Jaheira reminded him. "Not only that, but once you were making your getaway, you then got beaten up by Quint and his mob and the scroll was taken off you."

Harrian gave her a brief, sideways glance. "We stole it back off Duchinov successfully, mind."

"Successfully, yes, and we all remember how _that _went," Jaheira said dryly.

"I do still sometimes get an old ache in my jaw from that right hook of yours; it bloody hurt…"

"And you didn't deserve it?"

"I suppose that's fair, but did it have to be _that _–"

Their bickering came to a halt as they reached the crest of the final slope before Saradush and the siege camp would come into sight. They had all been rather too caught up in plans or arguing to pay too much notice to the horizon, and any traces of smoke then had been dismissed as part and parcel of an army in extended camp.

It was only when they saw the ruins of the city below them that they finally pieced together what they'd seen and realised that, for racing about the country, dealing with crazed witches, ghosts, and strongholds of Fire Giants, they were too late. Saradush had fallen.

Sarevok was, surprisingly, the first one to mutter their objections to this development. "Curses." He shook his head, sighing heavily. "Weak fools. They could not have held out days more for us to save them?"

"The… entire city?" Imoen whispered, drawing her horse to a halt beside the others. "They wiped out the entire city?"

"It is too hard to tell, child," Jaheira said, and for once Imoen was too distracted to object to the address. "Saradush has fallen; for all we know, they may have taken more prisoners than anything else."

"Maybe of the citizens. I don't know about the guards." Harrian's expression was hard to read, but the helm didn't cover the whole of his face, and what they could see was grim. "But I guarantee that every single Bhaalspawn in the city is dead." He looked over at Imoen tentatively. "Do you feel it too?"

"Maybe that's why I didn't feel like eating breakfast this morning," Imoen replied humourlessly.

Jaheira shifted. "This changes nothing. If we do not slay Yaga-Shura, only more people will die; and if he has taken prisoners, we must free them."

"He only has an interest in the Bhaalspawn; it would serve him no purpose to slay those who did not stand in his way," Sarevok said, surprisingly reassuringly.

Harrian snorted as he pressed onwards. "You forget the call of Bhaal's desire for blood too easily, Sarevok. Yaga-Shura has surrendered fully to it." His expression twisted darkly. "No doubt he would find death on such a large scale almost irresistibly intoxicating."

"Bhaal is satisfied by great death, indeed," Sarevok conceded.

"Your own plans in the north revolved around it. There was no certainty it would work, and yet you were still prepared to cause bloodshed by the thousands, hundreds of thousands," Jaheira reminded him quietly, not without her own sizeable dose of venom.

"It would have worked," Sarevok simply. "But it did not, and that is all that matters."

"It does rather matter that you think it would have been acceptable –"

"Now's not the time," Harrian interrupted Jaheira. "We should be going. Scouting parties seem to be at a minimum with Saradush down; it will only be harder for us to get into the camp. We must make good time, and be as convincing as possible." Despite his urging words, there was a certain distance to his tone that did not exactly fill the others with extreme confidence.

But the four of them trotted down the slope towards the edges of the camp, looking perfectly official and convincing, approaching the great army of Yaga-Shura. The soldiers were not at their most disciplined, clearly enjoying the spoils of conquest, and as the sun was beginning to set in the west, evening entertainment was springing up by the many tents and small camp fires where soldiers were clustered. Nobody gave the four adventurers a single glance as they rode in.

"Best to leave the horses," Harrian said, his casual tone of voice belying the darting of his eyes about them as he dismounted his chestnut. "We'll have an easier time on foot."

The others watched in a faint disbelief as he led his horse up to a small group of soldiers who had set up a campfire and were roasting a deer on a spit over it. Next to them, their own mounts were tethered to the remnants of a fence which might well have been some farmer's field before the arrival of the army, and Harrian only exchanged a few laughing words with a burly man turning the spit before he waved the others over to tie their horses next to those of the soldiers.

Jaheira eyed him suspiciously as they walked away from the campfire and their horses, though Harrian's expression was now difficult to read. "What did you say to them?" she asked dubiously.

Harrian shrugged. "I just asked if we could tie our horses there so we can check in with the captain. He's a right hard nut, you know, and we wanted to hurry along quickly so we wouldn't get in trouble like we would if we reported in late." He gave a wry chuckle at Jaheira's face. "You don't give me enough credit for how I can handle people."

Jaheira raised an eyebrow. "Clearly."

And it seemed he was right. The army, being well rested on what they had raided from the remains of Saradush, was not in any particular mood to get very authoritative, and the group were able to walk around with limited difficulty. That was, until they passed a fairly large, imposing-looking tent, and almost walked into a tall, silver-haired man in impressive armour with a captain's insignia as he exited.

"Ah!" the captain exclaimed vaguely, giving Harrian an evaluating look. "You would be the patrol, correct, lieutenant? We've been waiting for you for some time; you should have been back an hour ago."

Harrian hardly missed a beat, nodding at the older man. "Indeed, sir, and we apologise for the tardiness. We simply ran into a small spot of trouble with the marauding Il-Khan soldiers that remain, to the south of here." This was an intentional lie; Asrael and his forces lay to the north, and no patrols that would come their way today were set to make it back alive.

"Indeed?" The captain raised an eyebrow. "Well, come on in, then, and we can discuss your findings at a greater length over some wine and a better map than those scraps of parchment we equip you with." He waved a hand dismissively at the other three. "Tell your men to get some food and rest, as we may need their scouting services again on the morrow when we march on."

Harrian hesitated visibly this time. "I would… if you would give me a moment, sir, I shall clean up and see to my horse. It has been a long journey, and just a brief respite before we go over the details shall not come amiss." His posture had changed, Jaheira noted. He hadn't been walking with the almost careless saunter of usual, but with a more officious and purposeful gait. His tones had shifted, as well; more clipped, professional, losing the flattened vowels of his more northern accent to something far more appropriate to southern Tethyr. If she hadn't known him so well, she would hardly have recognised it was him at all.

"Surely it shall not take too long?" the captain asked, but now there was a faint edge in his voice, and Jaheira resisted the urge to grip her scimitar. She didn't know if it was her imagination or not that some of the soldiers milling around them seemed to have a distinct amount more purpose than before.

Harrian met the man's gaze. "Sir, I respectfully request a simple chance to brush myself off after a long day's riding."

"Indeed, a long day's riding south of here." The captain nodded slightly. "Interesting that the scouting party of my company, of which you wear the insignia, was sent to the north this morning, don't you think, lieutenant?"

Again, there was no shift in Harrian's gaze. "We decided to explore." Despite the game clearly being up, despite a growing certainty of Jaheira's that the milling soldiers were _not _milling, and some of them had swords, Harrian hadn't lost this confidence he was suddenly oozing.

"Of course, Lord Corias. Explore." The captain nodded.

"That's pretty much it," Harrian agreed, not reacting when the soldier drew his longsword. Sarevok did jolt into action, his hand going to the greatsword strapped to his back, though his movement stopped when a crossbow bolt thudded into the ground by his foot, purposefully missing by only an inch or two.

"Stand down, Bhaalspawn!" the burly soldier whom Harrian had talked to for securing their horses snarled, stepping out of the growing darkness and gathering soldiers, a pike in his hand. "Drop your weapons and prepare to face the Lord Yaga-Shura."

Harrian nodded to the others, even as he drew the Daystar and let it fall to the ground. "You know, I thought we'd get further than this," he said slowly. "Perhaps we should have avoided this tent."

"Perhaps you should have hidden glowing golden eyes," the captain replied coolly, looking smug. The mask of satisfaction faltered a little as Harrian only laughed wryly and nodded at this, but he still straightened up and eyed their four new captives. "But stand fast, invaders, threats to the power of Yaga-Shura, and prepare to face the new Lord of Murder, for he would very much like to see you."

"Face the new Lord of Murder?" Harrian chuckled. "I've heard that before."

Sarevok groaned, giving evil glances at the soldiers closing in on them. "Brother, I knew you were a fool, but your misplaced sense of humour is so far off the mark right now that I think your arrow is thudding into the judge on the archery range…"

Imoen sidestepped closer to her brother, looking rather worn and worried. "Harrian… Harrian, what are we going to do?" she hissed. "We can't fight them all off… we're completely ruined…"

"Yes, we are," Harrian replied, surprisingly casually, then raised his voice and nodded to the captain. "Tarry not, sir, I ask you kindly. For Yaga-Shura waits, and we would hate to disappoint."


	28. Chapter XXVIII: Battle of the Titans

**Chapter XXVIII: ****Battle**** of the Titans**

Yaga-Shura was a full head taller than his other giant generals, making him so tall that Harrian had to crane his neck so far he almost got cramp to look the other Bhaalspawn in the eye. They were assembled, the Fire Giant and his four right-hand men – another 'Five' to draw a neat parallel, Harrian presumed – in the largest tent in the army's campsite, full of oversized furniture and scurrying human servants trying to fill up a goblet of wine that would have satisfied Harrian's thirst for alcohol for a week. But the Bhaalspawn army leader was the most imposing sight Harrian thought he had seen since a dragon. He was huge, his muscles bulging even by giant standards, with long, fiery hair and a scowling, ugly face that definitely suggested he'd gathered his good looks from his crazy witch-mother.

He was laughing when the captain dragged the four of them in, a laugh which only escalated at the sight of them, and he slammed down one of the giant goblets of wine, spraying Harrian with the ruby liquid.

"Ha! Foiled, my brother!" Yaga-Shura shouted victoriously, so loudly that Harrian had to resist the urge to cover his ears. "But you put up a good fight, yes you did… you've been a great nuisance, and no doubt about it." He chuckled, more quietly this time. "Of course, you did slay Gromnir and make the guard fall so much it was easy to march into the city. Surely a minor fool in charge was preferable to conquest? Or did you demand the fresh blood as much as I do."

"I have managed to control the taint in me," Harrian said, with a confidence he didn't quite feel at those words. "And slaying Gromnir was not my intention. Merely… he did not listen well to talk." He met the Fire Giant's gaze. "That tends to lead to violence, and as you can see from the fact that I am alive after so long, I tend to be able to cope with both methods of solving a problem."

"Indeed. Harrian Corias, Ward of Gorion, Hero of more places than you can shake a stick at. Tell me, how does my army compare to the denizens of the Hells you've fought?" Yaga-Shura's voice was mocking.

Harrian gave them a dismissive glance. "More numerous, and their personal hygiene is scarier, but I think I have faced greater challenges. I've slain foes both numerous and powerful. You don't look that much more imposing than our sister, your ally, Illasera the Quick."

"Indeed? Never send a bounty hunter to do a soldier's work. She had more Bhaalspawn kills to her name than any others, but they were mostly confused farmers, the weak and pitiful ones." Yaga-Shura narrowed his eyes at Harrian. "You, Corias, are the only Bhaalspawn to hold a kill of one of the strongest of the Children. Two, in fact. Though I think it may be undone by the return of Sarevok Anchev." He nodded at the burly warrior who stood next to Harrian, similarly resolute.

"One is still one more than anyone else. I'm hoping to add another four to my list, still. Starting with you," Harrian said coolly.

Yaga-Shura laughed, deeply and loudly again, and on Harrian's other side, Imoen winced. "You are unarmed, and at my mercy, Corias. I shall spare you, however, if you are wise enough to see the opportunity before you."

"The opportunity?" Harrian raised an eyebrow.

Yaga-Shura reached down, and plucked a human-sized goblet from the hands of one of the servants, passing it to Harrian, who took it with a vague nod. "They say you are a 'noble' Bhaalspawn, Corias. Now, I have been in this world enough and have known enough of my brethren to be sure such a thing does not exist. Especially not amongst the powerful and successful of our siblings. Gromnir was a threat, so you slew him, and you intended to slay me too; Saradush mattered nothing. But here, you are at my mercy. Yet I recognise your power and ability; you have done more than perhaps any other, though your success shall end here if you are stubborn." Yaga-Shura took a large gulp of his wine.

"If you bow down before me… we could be so powerful as to overrun all of the other Bhaalspawn. Yes, even my so-called allies, the Five. And then you would serve me as my strong right hand, as only a Child has the right to do. Your power is of use to me, and right now, your life is in my hands. It is a better offer than you could hope for, Corias," the Fire Giant finished.

Harrian gaped for a moment, before hiding it with a sup of the wine. He didn't get more than a gulp, however, as Imoen sidled up beside him and murmured into his ear in a voice so low only he would hear. "I know what you're thinking. Side with him, find out about the other Five, stab him in the back. Do that and you're signing the death warrants of Anomen, Reynald, Asrael, Haer'Dalis and the others." Her voice was tight, grim, and Harrian was almost shocked at how, for the first time possibly ever, his sister was prepared to battle him head-on over this decision.

"That wasn't what I was thinking," Harrian said, his voice at a normal pitch, then looked up at Yaga-Shura. "You leave me with little choice, and the alternative to death is tempting enough as it is. Though I assure you, Yaga-Shura, I am no war leader."

"Neither was Illasera, and she was a worthy member of the Five. Bow down, Corias," Yaga-Shura urged, straightening up to his full, impressive height. "And stand beside me as we reach up to the planes of the Gods themselves!"

Harrian looked back at the others. Sarevok's expression was impassive, though he didn't seem too concerned by the way matters were turning. Imoen looked guarded, uncertain, yet faintly hopeful. And Jaheira…

…Jaheira's eyes were locked on him with a piercing and searching light that he had never quite seen before, and it made his stomach churn as he realised what it meant.

She was afraid. Afraid he was in the grips of the taint, ready to fall to his blood. Despite the notion, right then, seeming to Harrian to be foolish, it was still unpleasant. It was definitely time to show her that he was not making a decision when he was anything but in control.

He stepped towards Yaga-Shura, and fell to one knee in a deep and solemn bow. "I agree to your terms, Lord Yaga-Shura," he intoned quietly. "I shall stand beside you as we aspire to the power of the Gods…"

Then the dagger always hidden in his boot was in his hand as Harrian launched up, slicing in a backwards cutting motion that caught Yaga-Shura behind the knee, causing the Fire Giant to collapse in a heap on the floor.

"…and then I shall see you _fall_!"

The silence in the room, broken only by a bellow of pain from Yaga-Shura, was heavy as the soldiers stared at their general, the reputedly invincible Fire Giant, crippled and bleeding. The shock was so great that nobody reacted for a good few seconds, and when someone did, it was Harrian, sheathing his dagger in his boot again.

"When the chance comes – and it will, in a few seconds – grab your weapons and work it all out from there," he declared swiftly to the equally shocked Sarevok, Imoen and Jaheira.

"My… my magic! My protection!" Yaga-Shura shrieked as he tried to struggle to his feet, his useless left leg dangling beneath him purposelessly. "Damn that witch! Damn you all!" He paused, waving a hand not supporting him at his soldiers. "Don't just stand there! _Kill them_!"

A tent flap flew open, a young officer hurtling into the tent, gasping for breath. "My Lord Yaga-Shura, we are under attack! From the Il-Khan army, Asrael's men!" He froze as he saw the sight before him, their crippled leader, before letting out an indecipherable bellow of shock and disappearing just as quickly.

Regardless, the party were still unarmed and encircled by a dozen or so soldiers with weapons, not to mention the five Fire Giants. The attack of Asrael was not an instant victory.

"Your time is done, Yaga-Shura!" Harrian snapped, though, drawing himself up to his full height… and then lengthening even further as the others watched, his limbs broadening, muscles thickening, and skin reddening in a way Jaheira and Imoen had only ever witnessed thrice in the past, and never with pleasing results.

The Slayer's claw swung first at the burly soldier gripping the party's weapons, ripping apart his companions in the process, making the most of the shock the soldiers present were gripped in by the failure of their general's invulnerability and the sudden transformation of Harrian.

But it seemed as if Harrian had not ignored all words of warning, or succumbed to the singing for blood in his heart, for a clawed hand gripped the Daystar, oddly enough, and as soon as the Slayer had appeared, it disappeared, leaving a dishevelled and panting Harrian in its wake.

"See? He's just a man!" Yaga-Shura shouted, still leaning heavily on a table for support, though his soldiers were rather unable to respond as Imoen's magic missiles thumped into the midst of them solidly, and his generals were faced with six and a half feet of solid, muscular, angry, sword-waving Sarevok and a similarly battle-incensed druid.

"I thought I had no chance?" Harrian asked lightly, though his speech was lightly slurred as he stepped before Yaga-Shura, who had still managed to stand vaguely upright and grab a massive warhammer. "I thought my only option was to bow before you?"

He easily sidestepped the heavy yet lazy swing of the Fire Giant's hammer, and lunged forward himself to slice at the already-injured knee, bringing another bellow of pain from Yaga-Shura.

"You have clearly chosen death!" he snarled, swaying only a little.

"No. I think I've just reversed the position," Harrian said grimly, shifting aside from another ineffective swing of the warhammer, his speed easily giving him the advantage over the injured Fire Giant. "Now, your only option… is to kneel!"

Yaga-Shura yelled out in pain again as he felt the slicing of the Daystar on his uninjured leg, and fell to the ground with a crash, his legs useless and unable to support him. Flat on his front, the warhammer flying away a few feet, he knew he could not rise again, and when he felt the tip of Harrian's blade by his neck, knew he had lost.

"Spare me," the Fire Giant grunted weakly. "We could still… still rule… or if you wish it, I could leave, miles away, never bother you again, never challenge you for the Throne of Bhaal…"

"If I believed that, I would have spared Illasera," Harrian said grimly, only vaguely aware that all in the tent had frozen with the fall of Yaga-Shura. "But I do know that there is one thing a Bhaalspawn has no choice in, and that's their involvement in the destiny of the Children. So… you cannot live."

It took two solid swings to sever the great Fire Giant's head from his shoulders, and as Yaga-Shura's body began to dissolve into nothingness, as did all the bodies of the Children of Bhaal, Harrian was keenly aware of the stillness about him having not stopped.

"You have won, God-child."

He looked up to see the battle before him frozen in time and, standing before him, an elusive figure whose voice matched that of the voice that had spoken to him after Illasera's death. It seemed that here was his guide.

"And yet, you lost much of yourself to do so."

"I did what I had to do," Harrian said, his eyes roving over the fighting in the great tent. There was only one Fire Giant general left, his huge greatsword blocking a blow from Jaheira's scimitars, Sarevok with his own blade upraised, ready to bring it down on the giant's unprotected back. The soldiers who had brought them to the tent were turning to flee in the face of Yaga-Shura's death and the magical assault of Imoen that had already felled many of them.

"There seemed to be few other choices. That is the nature of your fate. Only a Bhaalspawn can survive what you have to face… but it is not simply _being _a Bhaalspawn that is enough, but living your life according to what you are." The Solar stepped away, heading out of the tent, and Harrian hurried after it.

"You're saying that to win I need to become just as bad as those I wish to slay?" Harrian asked sceptically.

"Did you raze a city? Hunt down weak farmers solely because they shared your blood? No. You do not revel in death as the Five, and many others do. But there are many levels to stand on if you are a Bhaalspawn. They are at the deepest, slaves to the dead God. You, however… are more in control."

Outside the tent, chaos reigned. Asrael's forces had set down upon the army of Yaga-Shura when they had least expected it, and soldiers bloated on the spoils of war, drunk and overfed and unprepared, were being slain by the dozen in the face of a surprise attack.

"You have a balance, of understanding your nature and yet not falling prey to it. You do not deny what you are, nor are you a slave to it. But do not rest with this level, for it is the most dangerous of all, and it shall take only a slight faltering for you to be controlled by your blood as the Five have been," the Solar told him, winding its way in and out of the battling forces.

"But how –"

Harrian's words were lost as he suddenly found himself a couple of hundred metres further west than he had been, where the cavalry prong of Asrael's attack had hit the more battle-ready forces Yaga-Shura held prepared. Captain Jastian Asrael himself was at the front of the charge, a great spear plunged through the chest of a soldier of Yaga-Shura. Beside him, similarly mounted, were Anomen and Reynald, frozen in the middle of pitched battle.

"This one, Asrael," the Solar continued slowly, "denies what he is. He knows his nature, but refuses to accept it. He shall not survive the coming storm of death. For he is ill-prepared to handle his nature; he buries it within himself, hides from it, and although it holds no sway over him, it grows stronger by the hour and shall either overcome him or those who do not deny themselves shall slay him. It is not in the nature of a Bhaalspawn to have a long life, or to reject the dead Lord of Murder."

"I've rejected him, though…" Harrian said weakly.

"No. He resides within you, a part of you. You slew Yaga-Shura because you were both yourself and of your taint. Your taint meant that you stayed alive, because you used it to your advantage, and yet you did not succumb to the murder or those you stand with would be dead too. To deny your taint fully is as dangerous to fall to it."

Harrian's eyes widened. "Imoen… what of her? Her Bhaal-blood is not…"

"Not strong? Not with a hold? You are blind, God-child, if you believe either of those." The Solar shook its head. "That is the lesson for the future that you need to know today. But there is yet more I should tell you. For the future holds great importance, but we need the past to understand it. We shall leave this place. There is much I should tell you."

Then everything went black.


	29. Chapter XXIX: Mists of Time

**Chapter XXIX: Mists of Time**

"I'm honestly not going to tolerate this anymore until you tell me just who the hell you _are_," Harrian said testily as he found himself back in his pocket plane, the Solar facing him, both of them standing in the very centre of the vast arena. "You've just been an evasive bugger so far, and I don't like it."

The Solar gave him a long look. "You think we do what we _like_ here, God-child?" it asked curiously.

"No, but I'm not going to co-operate unless I get something more of an answer from you," Harrian retorted grouchily. "I don't know who you are, why you're here, what you're trying to do or why the hell I can touch this ancient plane of Bhaal."

The Solar shifted in a way which spoke of a sigh to him, and Harrian felt briefly smug that he was managing to make a celestial being feel sick of him. "As I have said, I wish to prepare you for your destiny. There is a lack of stability in the fate of the Bhaalspawn… nobody is sure what will come to pass."

"I thought Ao had decreed no Gods were to interfere?" Harrian said.

"They are not. I am not interfering, merely aiding you. Besides, to believe that all of the Gods are toothless currently is… incorrect. Ao cannot control them all, and many have their interests in the fate of the Throne of Bhaal," the Solar explained.

"I imagine Cyric's rather concerned," Harrian mused.

"Amongst others. But there is much left for you to do, and such an unsuitability for it to be you. Your ultimate fate is clouded, but it is commonly assumed that preventing the return of Bhaal may someday be your single-handed responsibility." The Solar tilted its head to one side faintly, regarding him.

"No pressure," Harrian mumbled. "So enlighten me. What do I need to know that's so important?"

"You are understanding how much the Bhaal taint is a part of you. You know how to use it, though it is a dangerous road. I have already explained how you may fall if you are not careful, but that is not where I stand to aid. That shall be to your companions to rectify. Bhaalspawn they may not be, but they have a duty and importance in keeping you true to yourself." The Solar took a step forward as Harrian began to pace. "But although I shall not be maintaining that balance myself, it is my duty to ensure you understand it."

"How so? Understand what? Bhaal whispers into my ear, orders me to commit murder, revel in blood, all that fun. I resist, but I know that… I can't deny what I am." Harrian frowned. "The best I can do is stop it from controlling me. I hold no delusions that I'm in charge all the time, either. I've been there, and I know I'm not."

"No. But do you truly understand yourself, and do you truly understand Bhaal and his influence?" the Solar asked.

"That sounds impossible."

"It is. But to maintain the balance, you must better understand the two sides. And as they were intertwined so fiercely, all I can do is open the door within you. It is up to you to find the balance, the sides," the Solar said.

"Nice to know you're being helpful. Here I was, being rather unconfused, and now…" Harrian rolled his eyes. He rather wished he was back at Asrael's camp, sitting around a fire with Jaheira and the rest of the party, eating one of Anomen's stews.

"I merely attempt to teach," the Solar said, and Harrian would have sworn there was a slight tone of irritation in its voice. "It is up to you if you listen, up to you if you learn, up to you if you wish to act upon it."

"Then enlighten me," Harrian said, managing to keep any scathing tones out of his voice.

The Solar raised a hand, and their environment darkened again. Harrian could still feel the ground underneath, solid and unpleasant of this plane of Bhaal's, but being unable to see it was surprisingly comforting. "Your actions in the present are a part of understanding who you are. Who you are shall define what happens in the future. But, important as the dark future is, we cannot overlook the past, which is what made you who you are. To go forward, we must look backwards."

"I know of my past. I was _there_," Harrian said dryly.

"You cannot remember all of it." The Solar's voice suggested a shrug. "What do you know of your mother?"

Harrian stiffened. "I… I don't know," he admitted falteringly. "Gorion never said much. Jaheira and Khalid never seemed to know anything about her, either. I… don't know."

"Not even her name?"

He scowled, his hand clenching into her fist. "No. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Didn't you hear me the first time? I don't know a damned thing about her. Can we move on?" If he hadn't been in absolute darkness, he'd have been pacing by now, his favoured way of burning off irritation; it gnawed at his body, demanding to be used up in some way. He settled for drumming his fingers against the hilt of the Daystar.

"Then you truly know nothing if you think it matters," the Solar said, and somehow managed to say the words without any sting, surprising considering how hostile Harrian was feeling right then. "But I am not the one to enlighten you. The best to tell you the truth is… the one who was there." It waved an arm.

Harrian's stomach clenched into a tight ball as the darkness shimmered before him, and a tall, grey-haired figure dressed in robes of a simple yet durable nature materialised through the gloom.

"No more damn tricks!" Harrian snarled, his hand settling around his sword hilt. "I have already seen my father be made a mockery of this tenday – I shall _not _suffer it again! Undo this!"

"There is nothing to undo, my ward," the figure of Gorion said quietly, and Harrian stopped as the tone of the voice held no echoes of deceit as they had outside of the temple of Bhaal. "You can only trust me on this, but it is I, not another trick."

"That would defeat the nature of these teachings, God-child," the Solar declared.

Harrian gave it a faint glare. "It would defeat the nature of what you claim these teachings are. Who knows what your true plans are?"

"Listen to my, my son," Gorion said, his voice holding a certain comforting authority which stopped Harrian from resisting when he stepped forward and lay a hand on his forearm. "We are here to help. Believe me, for you have no enemies on these echelons of power or of the planes. Five foes, and we do not number amongst them."

"What does this have to do with my mother?" Harrian asked slowly, finally raising his eyes to look his foster-father in the eye. Only suspicion was keeping him at bay; quite frankly, he just wanted to throw his arms around Gorion and get him to say something which could banish all fears, even though he knew the sage's ability to do that in his youth might not work when the fate of the realms was resting on his shoulders.

"You need to understand, to understand the true nature of the situation in which you find yourself. So let us step back twenty years, to a dark time…" Harrian smiled thinly, closing his eyes tightly at Gorion's words – for his foster-father had often used them, or a variation on them, as a prelude to any story told in the past.

"Bhaal had foreseen his death, and the creation of the spawn was a process he had been undergoing for centuries, a carefully-laid plan to ensure success. It was only a few years after your birth that he finished the process, retreating for some ten years before his death at the Time of Troubles.

"However, understand that the plan for the Bhaalspawn itself went off course almost the moment it started. The idea was not to allow the Children to go forth in the world, but merely to use them as vessels for the taint. Before Bhaal's death they lived as most did, and when they died their bodies did not fade, and their essence would fly to an afterlife the same as any other. It was intended by Bhaal that his spawn would be slain as soon as possible after their birth, solely so as he could return to life as soon as possible after his death – and when he died, any taint in any afterlife flew to him, and any Bhaalspawn who were by then slain would disappear from all existence."

"But we weren't all killed upon birth. What happened?" Harrian asked.

Gorion gave a thin smile. "Many mishaps. It was not only his priestesses that Bhaal impregnated, but truly any female he found… suitable. As such, not all of the Children were killed at birth. And even those born to his priestesses did not all die, for many ceremonial slaughters were interrupted."

The golden shimmering of Harrian's eyes darkened as he studied his father's expression. "You interrupted one," he said slowly, piecing the story together.

"Indeed. Your mother… was a priestess of Bhaal." Gorion looked regretful, though Harrian did not respond to this news with much shock. "Myself and my companions had heard word of a nearby temple preparing to partake of a slaughter. And although we knew vaguely of the Bhaalspawn, we also knew that the massacre of innocents, most of them babes, was not something we could ignore."

The old sage gave his foster-son a craggy, apologetic smile. "I shall spare you the details. It was not a pleasant encounter. In the end, all we succeeded at doing was causing chaos, and bringing the wrath of dozens of priestesses of Bhaal upon us, which did not make for a dramatic rescue of the babes. But we made it possible for many of them to flee, if they could… I only managed to save a single one of them myself." Gorion's eyes fixed on Harrian's. "You."

"But, as he said, most of us had to save ourselves," a young voice from behind Harrian uttered words far too old for its age, and he whirled around to see a tousle-headed boy of perhaps five or six emerging from the darkness. "Such as I, Sarevok, who watched the sage seize you and flee, and who had to make his own way out."

"It was only a decision of a matter of moments; you were closest, and I snatched you up. It could have been any other," Gorion admitted.

"And what if it had been?" the Solar interrupted, stepping in between Gorion and the child Sarevok. "What would have happened then? Would you be who you are today if you had not been under the care of Gorion? Almost certainly not. Would Sarevok now be standing where you are if he had been taken up? Possibly, though his own naturally violent nature would make him more susceptible to the taint than you were, and he could have stumbled along the way. But perhaps your roles would have been reversed? Perhaps you would have been the one to die under the Baldur's Gate, your plans for ascension foiled."

"It's impossible to know," Harrian said tautly, finally ignoring the darkness enough to pace of his own accord.

"True. But it is your past that has brought you here on the path. And you cannot ignore it," the Solar said.

"I do not!" Harrian insisted, glowering at his guide.

"No? But do you understand it?" The plane of Bhaal was fading back into existence now, and the Solar threw out a hand at the second gateway around the arena. There was a moment's crackling, a charging of energy, before the magical block spluttered and died. "I know not. You shall have to, however, to face it. And face it you must. That is your second challenge."

Harrian whirled around as the Solar took a step back, then his eyes fixed on Gorion. "No, wait… father… I can't lose you like this again…"

Gorion took a step forward, clasping his foster-son's shoulder. "My boy, you are fighting the darkness within you in a way I had feared was not possible. You are standing head and shoulders above the taint, not letting it mar you as it has marred the others. I may have made that possible, but you do not need me anymore."

"But I have missed your guidance… needed your guidance…" Harrian's expression was dark and pleading, full of fear.

"You have the guidance of others now, others to support you. And you must support them in turn. Jaheira shall stand by you forever, of that I have no doubt." Gorion smiled knowingly, and Harrian could not help but look sheepish. "Yet you cannot ignore her own fears and doubts, or you shall both tumble. You travel with my killer, Sarevok, but he is not the same man anymore without Bhaal whispering in his ear. Give him the chance he needs to rise above the Lord of Murder, the chance I gave you." Gorion embraced his son tightly, and Harrian let himself be held like a little boy. "And look after Imoen. She will need it. She has her own trials ahead. Do not doubt her, or underestimate how the fate of the Bhaalspawn shall tug upon you. She needs as much support as you do, maybe more."

"I… I shall do so, father," Harrian promised, stepping away.

"We shall see each other again, my son," Gorion told him quietly. "I almost wish it were not so, but all things must end. And we shall see each other again. I only hope it shall not be for some time." There was a deep sadness to his words, an ache in his eyes Harrian did not miss.

"I shall try to dodge all blades," he assured him, whispering tightly. "I shall stand by all you taught me, and above all… I shall be _me_, I shall not be what a dead God of Murder demands I am."

"Then you shall not need my guidance." Gorion stepped away, back towards the Solar, and the already-fading child form of Sarevok. "Goodbye, my boy. And hold strong."


	30. Chapter XXX: Shattered Mirror

**Chapter XXX: Shattered Mirror**

"What, exactly, are these tests for? Last time, we saw some fat old man talking about how he murdered people and was judged for it. Then we had to kill everyone all over again," Anomen grumbled as he and the others surveyed the open doorway to the second test of Harrian's taint.

Harrian had summoned the others to him with the statues the moment the Solar had gone and he realised he was expected to face this test. Apparently, the battle by Saradush was finished, and the others were all weary, but Harrian was intent on dealing with this as soon as possible. The party had grumbled somewhat, but stood beside him regardless. The Bhaalspawn prophecies paused for no respite or slumber.

"They are an exploration of the taint of Bhaal," Sarevok said. "The last one was to make Harrian see that a Bhaalspawn can not live their life without being guilty of something, and he demonstrated that he could deal with the judgement dealt."

"Really?" Imoen raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought it was kinda showing that no matter what, the Bhaalspawn are going to get people trying to hurt us. We showed that we could defend ourselves, right? Those normal people with the taint got killed by people like Illasera, if they were good or if the taint had got to them."

"It is reassuring to know that these lessons are so clear to everyone," Reynald commented dryly.

Harrian smirked, though it was an empty smile as his eyes didn't leave the gateway. "I know as much as I need to on that matter. Here is… here is where I explore yet more. There are still answers out here to be found."

"I still think we should find some source of the prophecies. There are answers we seek which only they can answer," Sarevok mumbled.

"When we find a library, we shall let you know," Jaheira said, shaking her head. "For now, Harrian's right…"

"I am?"

"…we need to answer what is right here, right now. Otherwise this may all be for nothing." Jaheira ignored him, despite the fact that she was supporting his plan.

The party stepped towards the gateway with the sort of tentative boldness which hopes someone else will actually go first so they can stride valiantly forwards. In the end, Harrian found himself naturally at the front, though Anomen still looked rather unhappy about the whole matter.

"My friend… do you have any inkling of what it is we are about to face here?"

Harrian shook his head. "Not so much." He looked at Sarevok for a long moment, and the great warrior looked back, nonplussed. "Just something about what might happen if different paths were taken."

"By us?" Reynald asked.

"By… others. Maybe us. But we'll see." Harrian didn't want to get into all of this just yet.

The cavern of the second test was much the same as that of the first – a huge, rounded arena as wonderfully decorated of dark and sizzling stone as the rest of the plane of Bhaal was. But, unlike last time, there was more than just one individual standing in the centre there to greet them.

There were six individuals, in fact.

First and foremost was a warrior clad in armour of a deep crimson the shade of dried blood. He was not as tall as some of those accompanying him, nor as broad-shouldered, but the hefty bastard sword he gripped in his hands and the sheer presence he held as he stepped forwards drew all attention to him.

"So this is as weak as I am without allowing Bhaal to empower me."

Harrian smiled grimly as he raised the Daystar in a salute to his darker self. "So this is as enslaved as I am allowing Bhaal to dictate my every action."

His counterpart's hair was darker, seemingly, and longer, tied back. The glittering golden eyes were the same, but he was clean-shaven, and his face was gaunter, making for seemingly well-chiselled features. Harrian allowed his eyes to rove over to the others, and for some reason found them yet more disturbing.

Next to his counterpart stood the smallest figure of the group, slim and lithe, her hair also dark. She wore the same shadow dragon leathers he did, and was fingering a long, vicious-looking knife, eyeing him much in the same way a hunter evaluates a grazing deer.

Harrian could take his own eyes looking evil and disturbed, though for some reason the colour had drained from Anomen's face at the sight of his party leader's counterpart. But seeing pure murder in the expression of Imoen's doppelganger was simply far more disturbing.

His eyes flitted over the others, not wanting to see them – Anomen with a symbol of Shar around his neck, Jaheira in a suit of darkened armour and a twisted quarterstaff, Sarevok in his old spiky metal suit, and Reynald with…

…Reynald looking exactly like he did right now, except possibly a great deal more tired. Harrian gave _his _Reynald a suspicious look to make sure he hadn't scurried across the arena to stand with the doppelgangers just to confuse them, but no, he was there, his expression emotionless.

Maybe they would all need a lot of therapy after this.

"You wonder how they are also as dark, do you not?" Harrian's counterpart called out tauntingly, stepping amongst his fellows. "Sarevok? He fell under my sway soon enough. My plans for ascension were brought to a halt by Irenicus' experiments, but Sarevok recognised my power, whatever that old fool tried to convince him of. And dear little sister Imoen? As the Bhaaltaint began to show itself, Sarevok and I could guide her on how to truly harness it."

He laughed humourlessly, and Harrian found his hand curling tightly around the hilt of the Daystar. Without thinking about it, he raised his other hand to unsheathe the Equaliser. This was no time for half-measures.

His counterpart continued, stepping over to 'dark' Jaheira, his eyes now more lecherous than taunting as he regarded the doppelganger of the druid. "Vengeance can do dark things to a woman, and when a powerful, competent man is there to aid her with it… the balance can be forgotten."

"Okay, let's just leave this pile of horseshit right where it is," Harrian spat, not really wanting to hear any more of this. "You're clearly off your rocker from Bhaal talking too much to you. Let's just get this over with."

"Dismiss me and you'll never understand," his counterpart retorted sharply. "That is why you are here, is it not? To understand why you are who you are? You grew up with Gorion and his guidance, and thus you are still a 'paragon of virtue'." The armoured Harrian spat on floor, his expression one of disgust. "But it is not as straightforward as that… for the Sarevok who stands beside me now does not play the role you do."

"I can imagine it's both a mixture of nature and nurture," Jaheira spoke, her voice cool and calm, her eyes resolutely not looking at her double.

The darker Harrian smiled. It was the sort of smirk the 'real' Harrian gave whenever he was right, or sure of himself, or in one of his cocky moods. On him, it could either be annoying or endearing. On his counterpart, it was just sinister.

"That would be about right." He locked eyes on Harrian coolly. "And it is for you to understand the affect you have on others. Sarevok is who he is both by his own choice, and my influences. The same with Imoen. All of them, in fact. No, none of our companions are simple statues sculpted by us, but they are influenced. They make their own decisions, but we are the ones to lay out the choices before them."

Dark Harrian stepped over to 'his' Anomen, clapping him on the shoulder. "Take Delryn here, for example. I urged him to take vengeance for the death of his sister upon Saerk. Ignoring the law and the minor issue that Saerk was innocent saw him dismissed from the Order. Did he do it because of I? Surely. Did he make his own decision? Definitely. And it was entirely of his own doing that he murdered his father upon hearing of _his _guilt. You understand?"

Harrian snarled a little. "I understand. I knew all of this."

His double shrugged. "Of course, this is just one of the possible outcomes of Gorion choosing Sarevok, not us. It could have ended in many ways, just as your story could have. But this is the path that runs totally contradictory to yours… and all it took was a split second's decision on the part of an old man. We made our decisions which shaped these paths, but their directions were decided without us."

"Isn't that the nature of the Bhaalspawn prophecies?" Harrian asked dubiously. "I know that I must make of the situation what I will, and stop who I can, and save who I will… but I hold no delusions that I can control what will happen at the end of all things. And I know that I made no decision to end up in this situation."

"That is why I am here. To show you that for every choice you make yourself, another one is made for you. There _are _other occurrences in which the Harrian not raised by Gorion managed to stave off the Bhaal taint. Of course, he did not face the same situations as you did, and is a very different sort of hero. But I walked the path which was like yours in so many ways except for how it went through the shadow. You and I are the ones who are the most alike, the opposite sides of the coin. That is why I am here."

Harrian regarded his double grimly for a few more moments. "Good. That's nice. We'll be going now." He didn't think it would be as easy as that, however, and kept his hand on his sword. He noted the others around him remaining similarly battle-ready.

"Not so swiftly, though," his double replied, raising his sword slightly, and Harrian recognised the blade as Bloodrazor, the sword he had chosen not to keep in Hell. "I have many purposes in standing here. One is to explain to you what I have. The other… to answer the question posed by many. Am I more powerful for embracing my taint and my blood, for I have slain all those around me, pathetic in understanding Bhaal that each and every one of them is. Or is your constant struggle strengthening _you_, and allowing you to rise up above others chained down by our father's whispering?"

"We're both going to believe that it's our own version," Harrian said slowly, drawing the Daystar. "So I think we definitely both know there's only one way to find out."

Sarevok stepped over to Imoen as the party lurked by the dark doorway that was the portal Harrian would use to transport them back to the remains of Saradush. The fight against their darker selves had been hard, and yet somehow easily finished; the question of Harrian's double about who held the greater power appeared to have been more one left to the ages rather than something resolved there and then. Each had fallen conveniently under the weapons of their counterpart, and then the bodies had faded into nothingness. This Solar Harrian had spoken of had taught him a lesson, and Sarevok knew that any tests would not be held in a controlled chamber in this plane.

"Do you sleep these nights, sister?" Sarevok asked Imoen at last, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. Anomen, Reynald and Jaheira were standing a little closer to Harrian, none of them talking to each other. Nobody seemed too happy to discuss what they had just seen.

Imoen looked at him sharply, surprised both by his presence and his question. "I… what's it to you?"

Sarevok raised an eyebrow. "You may think of me only as the hulking monster of last year, but times have changed. I… have changed. Somewhat. I am not a Bhaalspawn any more, to start." He wasn't going to go into how recent events were making him look at himself rather seriously. If nothing else, he didn't know how to put it into words. But through both the fight with Yaga-Shura and the skirmish just then, Sarevok had still been keenly aware of the echoes of Bhaal's voice in his head which had to have been booming loudly in Imoen's. Once, he would have revelled in it, tasted the temptation, drank of the blood. Now, the words held no temptation for him, and chilled him to the bone.

"I sleep, Sarevok," was Imoen's quick, curt, and completely transparent reply. So transparent he could see where she was hiding.

"Do not think me blind, Imoen," Sarevok replied, shaking his head. "I have a small piece of your soul… and apart from the occasional flashes of fondness for vibrant shades of pink and small ponies, it does bring in some things I never knew before."

Her expression was shocked as she looked at him, his surprisingly gentle tones taking her unawares, and she didn't resist when he reached out to lightly lay an armoured hand on her shoulder.

"I know of how you fail to sleep at night. I know of how dreams of blood and death torment you when you do. I know of how Bhaal's voice explodes in your head with every death you see, and shouts when you slay others." His voice gained an urgency, though from where he didn't know.

"Same as any other Bhaalspawn," Imoen said, trying to shrug and trying to sound dismissive and failing on both counts.

"That makes it no less important. But I know more, little sister." Sarevok grimaced. "I remember Irenicus. I remember his blades cutting into your skin. I remember weeks spent being prodded by the Cowled Wizards. I remember your soul being viciously ripped from your body, and being placed in a vampire…"

Imoen had gone more than slightly pale now. "Stop…"

"I know of the fear you feel – fear that you are not good enough for Gorion, fear that you will fail him. Fear that you will not fight off Bhaal and the taint, and fail us and Harrian. Fear that you will forget yourself."

She managed to find some resolve, stepping away from his heavy gauntleted hand. "Sarevok, I don't want to hear this. Torment me some other time."

The harsh urgency dropped from his voice at her words, and he leant forwards a little. "The priest cannot understand these trials, these burdens you bear, and that is no slight on him. He cannot possibly comprehend. But I do, Imoen. I see your pains, I see your burdens. And I know that you are stronger than you think."

"Let's get going." Harrian's voice from behind them jerked them both out of the moment, and Sarevok turned to see the others all looking at them. Harrian stood half-encased in the shadows of the doorway, Reynald and Jaheira appeared neutrally curious, but Anomen was giving him a look that, if armed, would kill.

"I'd rather not be camping here tonight. We can set up camp by Saradush." Harrian seemed unable to repeat the name of the city without a trace of grief entering his voice, but Sarevok chose not to comment, merely nodding and stepping towards the others, Imoen in his wake. He didn't know if she'd heard his words, didn't know if she cared. Nor did he know why he had even said them in the first place.


	31. Chapter XXXI: General Issues

**Chapter XXXI: General Issues**

"There _are _still survivors, Lord Corias," Asrael said to Harrian as the two of them walked through the camp which had once been home to Yaga-Shura's army and which, after a certain amount of clearing, had been taken over by the victorious forces allied with Saradush. The city had fallen, but their soldiers had prevailed, a bitter irony that tasted foul in Harrian's mouth.

"I can imagine Yaga-Shura did not quite have the _time _to kill them all," Harrian mumbled unhappily. "Though I assume the Bhaalspawn are dead?"

"We did not find bodies," Asrael replied, frowning. The captain looked understandably weary and battle-worn, but as the two of them walked to and fro on the battleground which had now become a campsite, he would still pause a moment or two to exchange a word, a handshake, or even just a smile with soldiers they encountered. It wasn't much, but Harrian could see how it urged them on in their activities.

"That's not a big surprise. But survivors have been found, and the city isn't completely destroyed?" The hope in Harrian's voice was palpable, for the image of Saradush in flames, only a few hours old, was burnt on his mind. A day sooner, and the city might have been saved. Instead, hundreds were dead.

He felt tired, worn, and it wasn't just because of the battle. He had woken up that morning feeling as if a heavy burden had landed on his shoulders, and it turned out this had coincided with Yaga-Shura's march into the city and the extermination of the Bhaalspawn there. The sensation had grown to a sickness in his stomach when he had slain the fire-giant himself, worse than the faint pains when he had slain Gromnir, or even Illasera. Strange times were having a strange affect.

"In ruins, but salvageable. But the government of Tethyr is set to deal with this of their own accord, and most of the inhabitants who are in a fit state to do so are leaving to find sanctuary elsewhere. This entire area has been lain waste to by the Bhaalspawn wars, and most people wish to simply get away," Asrael explained.

"Why didn't the Queen do anything about it before, if she's so concerned now?" Harrian demanded incredulously.

"She did. She sent forces against Yaga-Shura. They were defeated." Asrael shook his head. "His army was a powerful one. We only prevailed because surprise was on our side. Many of the soldiers fled when the word spread that Yaga-Shura was _not _invulnerable anymore, and many, many more afterwards when news of his death got out. The army was well-trained, and with higher spirits and morale than any other with their so-called invincible leader."

"Though I suppose your forces had vengeance for Saradush driving them on," Harrian said sorrowfully, looking across the camp field to where Saradush still smoked faintly. "And now? What will you do?"

"I do not think either you or I should be here when the armies of Tethyr arrive," Asrael replied instantly. "Edicts are being passed to gather and imprison all Bhaalspawn found, and rumour has it that you are being held responsible for the destruction of Saradush. Many of my army have families here, and I have allowed all those who so desire to leave my service and go with them. But there are guards, and other warriors inside the city who have survived who are joining those who remain and flocking to your banner."

Harrian stopped at this, wondering if he had missed a sentence or two of this conversation, and when he looked at Asrael the captain had a fervent, intent shine in his eyes. "My banner?" he repeated absently.

Asrael nodded quickly, not seeming to notice Harrian's discomfort. "The armies of Tethyr were powerless against Yaga-Shura and his forces. The Bhaalspawn have been laying waste to the south these past months with nobody to stop them. Until you came along. Some of my men know their place is with their families now, but there are others – others everywhere, across Tethyr, hurrying here now, even as we speak – who believe it is their duty to stop the Bhaalspawn from wiping out all life in the south. They wish to fight for the safety of the realms, and they see you as the only man who has the strength to defeat the tyrant Bhaalspawn."

Harrian blinked. "Don't people realise that _I'm _a Bhaalspawn? That you are too?" He hadn't known for sure if Asrael had been aware of his heritage, but the words the captain had spoken had rendered it irrelevant right then. Better he knew than not.

Asrael didn't seem surprised by the declaration. "They know. But they also know that you defeated Yaga-Shura. They know of your exploits at Baldur's Gate, they know you saved the city of Suldanessellar from the drow. They know how you braved the Underdark and fought a mad mage to save your sister and retrieve your soul. They know of all of your adventures in Amn, and they see you as both a hero and possibly the only hope the realms have."

Harrian frowned. "How in the hells do they know all of this?"

"The bards have been singing it, Lord Corias!" Asrael exclaimed, grinning.

"How do the _bards _know all of this? It's not as if it's public knowledge. I haven't been updating the town criers with every one of my exploits, or enlightening every bard I come across with my adventures…" Harrian's voice trailed off as a small light of realisation popped up in his head.

"Captain," he started slowly, in well-measured terms. "You were in Saradush before Yaga-Shura besieged the city. Did Haer'Dalis, by any chance, recite to you some ballad of my travels?"

Asrael nodded slowly. "In the greatest of detail. For the last few months he has been travelling the lands, spreading the word. Other bards have been picking up the song and performing it also. The tiefling has made you famous."

"I'm going to kill him," Harrian muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Because of Haer'Dalis telling everyone about what I and my companions did on a rather small scale, I'm now meant to be some great general who can rid the land of the Bhaalspawn monsters?" They were now drawing closer to Asrael's large tent, and Harrian was beginning to think it might be smart to retire to his own campsite and have a _long _sleep to mull this over.

"You, Lord Corias, are a beacon of hope. I know you are not a trained general, by any means, but it is thanks to you that Yaga-Shura was defeated. That is why I, and my men, and those who are arriving are pledging their allegiance to your cause. We were soldiers of Il-Khan and Saradush… Gromnir is dead, and Saradush no more." Asrael raised a hand to gesture to the flag flying from the top of his tent. "We fight for the Bhaalspawn of Candlekeep now."

Harrian's eyes bulged as he took in the flag, a banner of red with a typical heraldic castle or tower depicted on it, and in the centre… a candle. He suddenly found it rather hard to breathe. "You… made me a flag," he managed to stutter finally.

Asrael turned, and gave Harrian a deep nod which turned to a bow. "Aye, my lord. I, and my men, fight for you now, to defeat the three remaining members of the Five, and for the safety of the realms." He straightened up, his expression grim. "Word is spreading of more Bhaalspawn armies, and rumour has it that the forces of the fire giant are meeting up with those of one of his allies – a drow, they say."

Harrian frowned, trying to comprehend all of this news at once. "Abazigal doesn't sound like much of a drow name. This must be Sendai, or the mysterious last member of the Five – or, Gods forbid, someone else entirely."

"I know little. But I have someone here who knows more." Asrael stepped to the doorway of his tent and pushed it open, both of them stepping in to show a tall man in beaten armour standing next to the seated figure of Melissan.

She looked worn and battered but eminently glad to see him as she leapt to his feet, her expression creasing into a smile. "I was beginning to fear you would not be able to do it, Harrian, but I should not have doubted you! Saradush has suffered, indeed, but many of the people are alive and Yaga-Shura is dead."

"The Bhaalspawn are dead also," Harrian said blankly, not sharing her enthusiasm.

Melissan did falter a little at this. "Aye. They could not be protected against the brutish force of the fire giant. But much of the rest of the populace are alive and well, and so I shall take comfort in that fact. Had you been later, it would have been a graveyard you came to, not just a ruin."

"It is bad enough as it is. And it seems set to continue. There are three more members of the Five left, and all I know are their names. Not only that, I seem to have gained an army," Harrian said to her, feeling more than a little peeved. "Now I hope you have good news, or some lead to follow, or I might as well just give up."

"I, personally, know nothing more of the Five than that I have told you," Melissan admitted, shaking her head. "But I have an ally who should know more. The city of Amkethran, in the desert, is protected by an order of monks. The head of the monastery is named Balthazar, and he sees the scars the Bhaalspawn leave on these lands as we all do, and is willing to lend aid to stop it. He should know more of the Five than I."

"Should?" Harrian repeated dubiously.

"That is all I can offer."

"Bringing an army to the desert sounds like a logistical and supplying nightmare," Harrian said to Asrael.

The man in the battered armour, whom Harrian remembered to be one of Asrael's lieutenants named Beran, nodded slightly. "Maintaining an army of this size – which I estimate may even reach five thousand in number – is likely to be a nightmare. But we cannot stay here for long, or the men will drain Saradush of supplies."

"You and your companions will be swifter on your own in making it to Amkethran than if you travel with the army," Asrael agreed. "If, along the way, you make arrangements with villages, towns, and local rulers to provide the army with supplies, paying them as you go, then we shall be able to follow with less chaos. Send word to us once you reach Amkethran and know more, and we will probably not have even reached the desert by then."

Harrian considered this. "What if my word is to tell you to disband, for I may not need the army?"

"And you might need us," Beran replied coolly. "If this Sendai is gathering her own force _and _the forces of Yaga-Shura, then someone will have to defeat her. The armies of Tethyr are not what they once were. If you do truly not need us, then we shall go. But you should know all you can before you make that judgement."

"Paying for the supplies of the army will be costly. I have money, but not a personal wealth great enough to fund _that_." Harrian glanced at them all, including Melissan. "What of the coffers of Saradush? And the city's wealth?"

"The city had wealth indeed; enough to fund an army and more," Melissan agreed. "Gromnir brought money to the city with him."

Harrian smiled. "Then that is how we shall do it," he agreed. "We set aside enough money to pay for the supplies of the army as they move in the wake of myself and my companions, where we shall have arranged with locals to provide you with food. But a sizeable proportion of the money must go to the families of Saradush itself," he dictated.

Beran looked dubious. "The money belongs to Tethyr…"

"What has Tethyr done to deserve it?" Harrian shook his head. "This is a better cause. Very well, I shall do as you say. We will ride to Amkethran ahead of the army, and hopefully Balthazar will tell us enough to plan our next move. I do not like this idea of keeping such a force at hand, but if this Sendai _is _also gathering a great army, then we must fight fire with fire."


	32. Chapter XXXII: Rumour Mill

**Chapter XXXII: Rumour Mill**

"A bear there was! A bear! A bear! All black and brown and covered with hair!"

Harrian first heard, rather than saw, Haer'Dalis as he stormed out of the tent of Asrael, Melissan and Beran, heading back towards the small area the party had claimed for himself. He didn't particularly want to talk to the tiefling bard, but now that he knew where he was, over by a huge campfire entertaining a whole horde of soldiers, he reasoned that he might as well take advantage of the moment.

"Oh come, they said, oh come to the fair! So off they went, two boys, a goat, and a dancing bear!"

"Tiefling!" Harrian's loud declaration cut through the performance, and all eyes turned his way as he strode into the semi-circle of entertained soldiers. There was a small ripple of murmuring at the arrival of the man they had all sworn their swords in service to, and this only rose as Harrian stepped over to Haer'Dalis. Without even pausing, he threw an arm over the bard's shoulders, in what seemed like an amiable move but which rapidly twisted around into a head-lock, his grip on the tiefling more than a little solid around the neck.

With Harrian still walking, Haer'Dalis had little choice but to scurry alongside the Bhaalspawn. "My raven… eugh… this is an interruption…"

"Yep." Harrian waved a free hand at the assembled soldiers. "Sorry, lads, I need to borrow your entertainment for a few moments. I'll try to return him intact."

"Intact? My raven, if I have done something to displease you…"

"No speaking. Let me just talk to you." Harrian continued to drag Haer'Dalis along, the two of them now approaching the trees on the outskirts of the army's campsite. The party's area lay just a hundred metres or so further along the tree-line, and Harrian intended to go back and rant at everyone once he was done with the tiefling.

"For the last three months, you've been roaming the realms, making your way south, and singing a certain song, haven't you," Harrian started. "I think I remember this song well, as you were always scribbling something about it in my presence, or singing faintly, or something. I remember." He hummed a few bars of catchy melody, managing to get a note of faint irritation added in there.

"Ah yes! The tale of Candlekeep's greatest hero…" Haer'Dalis was cut off by a faint tightening of Harrian's grip. He wasn't exactly being violent with the tiefling, but was definitely being physical in his displeasure.

"Actually, only hero. Scholars don't tend to slay dragons, and however brilliant they might be, people generally aren't interested in a wonderful book a scholar spent his life writing." Harrian actually sounded a little remorseful at this – growing up around books, despite his adventurous nature, did mean he held some acknowledgement of their wonders.

"But I have you to thank for every bard from here to Waterdeep singing about me, correct? You to thank for my name being known by everyone as a beacon of light, happiness, and small fluffy puppies?" Harrian continued, sounding more irked this time. He tightened his grip again, and Haer'Dalis gurgled a little. "You to thank for an entire sodding _army _declaring its allegiance to me?"

Haer'Dalis gripped Harrian's wrist, his fingers sinking in at a spot that forced the thief to loosen his hold, and he twisted away. "You have me to thank for those things, aye, my raven," Haer'Dalis panted, straightening up. "But consider that you also have me to thank for the fact that Captain Asrael did not slay us when he first met us, knowing you to be a man of virtue. Consider that you also have me to thank for the fact that Asrael's army was at our disposal for the defeat of Yaga-Shura. You think you do not need this army to fend off the forces of the rest of the Bhaalspawn? Think again, my raven. Were it not for me, you would probably be dead by now, without the support of Asrael."

Harrian glowered at him. "He thinks I'm a damn hero of justice and righteousness because of your sodding stories!"

Haer'Dalis rolled his eyes. "I did not need to lie to make you out to be a hero, my raven. It is what you are. All I did was spread the word."

"I didn't _want _you to spread the word! I didn't _want _to be a household name! You've seen the way these soldiers look at me! They're practically worshipping me with every look! I don't want to be a god in the heavens or in this world, and it seems as if everyone's trying to take that wish away from me!" Harrian declared, hopping a little with exasperation.

"We do not always get to _choose_, Corias!" Haer'Dalis snapped, and Harrian stopped in his own speech at the sight of the tiefling actually showing what seemed to be genuine irritation. "The world will tell you what part to play, and though you can bring in your own flair, your own interpretation of the part, the lines are still written, the end dictated. You deny what you are, my raven. You deny the blood of murder and entropy within you, thinking you can rise 'above' it. You deny the heroism of the acts you have made in your denial. You can be either what your nature makes you or what your actions make you, and you seem to be wishing to be neither."

"What I _want _is to not be hunted down for my life_ or _suffer hero-worship."

"But you are a hero, and you are a Bhaalspawn, and thus you have no choice." Haer'Dalis straightened up. "You are trying to contradict the natural order of things, my raven. We do have a certain amount of choice in dictating who we are, but you, Corias, are denying all options available to you. That leads to danger. You must be aware of who you are."

"I know who I am. I just don't like others trying to decide my identity _for _me." But Harrian's irritation had made way for a slight uncertainty, something the tiefling saw and grabbed hold of.

"How we are perceived, my raven, is a large part of who we are." With that, Haer'Dalis merely shook his head and turned to stride off back in the direction of the campfire and the soldiers awaiting his return.

"We should have left him in the city when we left," Anomen's voice suddenly echoed from out of the trees, and Harrian whirled around to see the cleric coming out of the darkness, his arms full of pots and pans from dinner.

"He'd probably be dead if we'd done that." Harrian frowned.

"I know." Anomen smirked a little, then shook his head. "But he's right about needing the army. This is not an adventure for six powerful individuals. This is a war, not a personal vendetta. We need Asrael, and these men."

"We'll see." Harrian fell into step beside Anomen as they walked back towards their campsite. "Tomorrow, we should be setting off again. We have to head into the desert, to Amkethran. There's an ally of Melissan's who should be able to help us find the rest of the Five."

Anomen nodded. "Do we know we can trust this Melissan? Her intentions seem honourable, but we are doing an awful lot just by what she has said."

"She has yet to lead us wrong." But Harrian still wore a frown. "I share your concerns, Anomen, but we have little other choice. If we remain on guard for something to happen… the moment we find an alternate source of information, a more trustworthy one, then I would be happy to leave her behind." He shook his head. "Maybe this Balthazar will be safer."

"If he is an ally of hers?" Anomen scowled. "We seem to be surrounding ourselves with merely the iniquitous and untrustworthy."

"I know you have problems with Sarevok, Anomen," Harrian said levelly, not even needing to ask where Anomen's foul humour was coming from. "But he has proven himself so far, and we have no reason to question him."

Anomen stayed silent for a moment, his eyes on the ground. "There is something about him which disturbs me somewhat. I admit, I know not what it is… but it is there. It sets every one of my senses off when I look at him. I know he has not proven to be false yet, and I know that he has a chance without this poison of Bhaal within him, but… no matter how much I try, I cannot trust him, or even believe that trust is possible."

"And then there is how he talks to Imoen," Harrian ventured, and the twitch of Anomen's expression confirmed this. "Sarevok does not seem to have any malice or hostility towards her."

"I know, I just –"

"And it is understandable that there is a link between them, considering he holds a part of her soul." Here, Anomen's expression did more than twitch, and Harrian sighed. "My friend, this is Imoen. She is capable of taking care of herself. She can handle Sarevok."

"It is not just Sarevok. It is… I do not know ho much her taint affects her. She does not talk to me about it. There are these nightmares…"

"Nightmares?" Harrian raised an eyebrow. "She mentioned no such nightmares to me. Anything serious?" Then he stopped, shaking his head. "No… that's for her to tell me of her own accord. But I think you can rest easy, Anomen. The chaos of destiny and the Bhaalspawn… I think it might pass Imoen by."

"It seems to be passing _nobody _by," Anomen hissed as they approached the circle of tents of the party and the campfire in the centre Reynald was coaxing into existence. "Just look at Saradush. Your concerns may be of godhood, and death, and new Lords of Murder, but my primary concern here is the little picture, and keeping the repercussions of those higher matters from affecting her."

Harrian paused, mulling this one over. Reynald was wearing the expression of one who was pretending not to listen but had their ears pricked, with _far _too much focus on using his dagger to poke about the logs on the campfire. "Believe it or not, Anomen, my aims here are to keep as many people alive, with you, Imoen, and the others at the top of my priority list."

"But there are bigger matters than just us. Like the people of Saradush." Reynald raised his head, blue eyes fixing on both of them coolly. "I know not how far your priorities go, Harrian, but if to stay alive we must suffer another Saradush then I am not sure it is worth it."

"Like I said, I want to keep as many people as possible alive. But if we had died here, and the people of Saradush had lived, then would you consider that even?" Harrian asked.

Reynald nodded. "More than even."

"And then who would stop Sendai, and Abazigal, and this last member of the Five? Who would stop them from doing just as Yaga-Shura has? I see nobody else stepping forward. It is a poor example, as the people of Saradush did not die so we might live, but in staying alive we are ensuring _more _people stay alive," Harrian pressed.

Reynald frowned at his, then returned his attention to the fire. "I suppose we can only wait and see." He straightened up, his frown deepening. "I think we need more wood… I'll go."

"No, I will." Anomen shook his head. "It is a little stifling here anyway." He gave them both brief looks, then headed back into the trees from where he had come.

Harrian regarded Reynald for a long moment, his mind going back to the pocket plane trial. This man, whom Harrian considered to be a good man, was one the gods had dictated would be much the same if were he in the company of a party performing deeds that were righteous or deeds that were evil. Did that mean that he, Harrian, did not have as much of an influence on the others as his double had claimed? Or did it just mean that Reynald was not quite as honourable as he had thought, or would, in his lost and Fallen state, follow any leader that appeared to be strong?

Reynald shifted again to meet Harrian's gaze, and smirked a little. "They do not equip Fallen Paladins with black, spiky armour as part of the induction into darkness," was all he said simply, as if he had read the thief's mind. "If you were to fall to your blood and seek out power, would you prefer to equip yourself with heavy armour?"

Harrian smiled back slightly. "I'd get claustrophobic," he conceded, nodding. "Forgive me, my friend."

Reynald shook his head. "It is a concern I am not surprised you hold. I _am _a Fallen Paladin. Righteousness rejects me."

"You haven't been poking at Carsomyr lately, have you?" Harrian frowned.

Reynald laughed. "No. My friend… I have made peace with the fact that I will not become a paladin again. I have done too much. But one does not need to be a paladin to make amends, or to serve good. I endeavour to do both."

Harrian nodded, smiling again, then he glanced around. "Imoen's in her tent?"

"I think so," Reynald confirmed.

The rogue stepped over to the tent shared by Imoen and Anomen – their campsite was looking a little pathetic, with only four tents these days – and tugged faintly on the canvas. "Knock, knock." A vague noise from inside suggested her could enter, and he pulled the flap back to allow himself inside.

"Hey. You okay?" he asked as he slipped into the tent to see Imoen sitting on the blankets, curled over her spellbook, Boo perched on the edge of the volume and looking for all the world as if he were helping her with the spell memorisation.

She glanced up at him, looking tired and worn but not defeated, which was heartening to see. "Yeah," she said quietly, nodding a little, a lock of pink hair falling into her eyes. "It's just been a rough day."

"I know. We're getting together what money both Yaga-Shura and Saradush had, giving a lot of it to the survivors so they can pick up their lives," Harrian said gently as he sat down facing her, crossing his legs.

"A lot?" Imoen asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harrian grimaced. "We're going to need the rest to maintain this army I've now gathered."

She winced. "You really think it's necessary?"

"I don't know. Everyone else seems to. Rumour has it that the Five have other armies, and the remnants of Yaga-Shura's forces are flocking to them. It's going to take more than six of us – seven if we count that bard, though I don't think we can – to deal with this." Harrian grimaced.

Imoen nodded a little. "I suppose you're right."

Harrian leant back a little, eyeing his sister with an evaluating air. "Anomen mentioned something about you having nightmares. Should I be concerned?" he asked, pushing the door open for her to talk without pressing her. If she didn't want to talk, she could shake her head and say it was nothing and he'd pretend to believe her.

But she didn't – as he watched, the cautious and tired expression crumpled to show a shade more distress. Imoen looked down, scrubbing her face with her hands, and when she looked up at him she seemed more lost than she had in a while. "Yeah. I've been having nightmares. Strange ones… like sailing on rivers of blood."

He clearly failed to avoid a reaction to this, as Imoen nodded a little. "You had these before, didn't you."

Harrian grimaced. "About a year ago. Yeah. When we were still in the area around Baldur's Gate. "

"I guess my taint's taking more time to develop," Imoen murmured.

Harrian shifted over to sit next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder. "That's not a bad thing, Im." He sighed. "This is all going to work out. I promise you that. I managed it, so you can certainly manage it."

"I'm _not _you, Harrian." Imoen shook her head, but then glanced up at him. "I don't have your experience of fighting the taint. It's just coming so suddenly…"

"It came suddenly for me. And I didn't even know what it meant. You do." Harrian's voice dropped in volume but rose in urgency, and he hugged her lightly. "And I'm here to help you, every step of the way. We all are."

There was a long pause as she buried her face in his shoulder, gathering her words. Then when she spoke it was like a punch to his gut. "I don't want to become the Slayer, Harrian."

His expression darkened, unseen by her. "You mean, you don't want to descend to the same levels as I have," he mumbled.

Imoen pulled back a little, looking up at him. "You know that's not what I meant," she retorted. "Except for those times in Bodhi's crypt and in the Five Flagons when it was beyond your control, you didn't have much of a choice. Not today, and not in the Underdark."

"But the fact that I did it still disturbs you," Harrian continued, a little blankly.

"It _scares _me, Harrian. It doesn't make me think any less of you. It's just a fact of your taint." But her expression crumpled a little bit, and Harrian had to pull away slightly, shifting towards the entrance of the tent.

"So it's not me. It's just my taint that makes me the monster," Harrian replied softly, and before she could reply he slid out of the tent and into the night air, warm thanks to the southern climate and Reynald's campfire. The fallen paladin was standing with Anomen, now, overlooking the flames and putting more wood on and they both glanced in his way as he emerged.

"I'm going to bed," Harrian said simply, turning and heading towards the tent he shared with Jaheira, clambering in with little ceremony.

She was already asleep, under a pile of blankets, seeming guarded even in slumber. Harrian shifted over to sit beside her, not once taking his eyes off her face as he pulled off boots and his armour, trying to remain silent. She stirred only a little, but did not wake, and he reached out to take one of her hands as he lay down beside her, shifting under the blankets himself.

He admitted to himself that he was faintly glad she was asleep. He remembered the look in her eyes earlier, when he had been declaring his false devotion to Yaga-Shura. Harrian understood that it had to have been fuelled only by fear than any true belief, but in that moment, she had been convinced by his display. After Imoen's comments, Harrian didn't want to deal with this right now.

He kissed the tip of her ear lightly, then rested, holding her close. "I love you," he mumbled, knowing she wouldn't hear, probably not about to say the words if she would. He didn't think he'd be able to get to sleep that night… but there were many worse places to spend a night awake, and thinking.


	33. Chapter XXXIII: Dusty Road

**Chapter XXXIII: Dusty Road**

Sarevok had, for the last few days, found himself becoming increasingly confused by matters around him. It was not just reeling from the encounter with the wraiths and the false spirit of Tamoko, but the recent battle with Yaga-Shura and the subsequent decision-making of the party. They had left Asrael and his army behind the day before, setting off south for the desert and this monastery-city of Amkethran, to find more information out.

Why Harrian had not sent runners ahead and marched at the head of his army, Sarevok still wasn't sure. He had the power and influence to take what he wanted, and with his heroic reputation could round up the lands to support him in defeating the tyrannical Bhaalspawn left. They had passed through one small town already, arranging supplies for the incoming army – the local lord had made a valiant effort at refusing payment for his citizens to gather what food they could for Asrael and his men. After all, the podgy noble had claimed, it was in the best interests of them all to see the admirable Lord Corias be victorious against foul Children of Murder.

Sarevok had resisted the urge to snigger at the fact that the man had clearly had no clue that it was Harrian Corias himself who was riding ahead of the army. He had obviously thought the party to be mere lackeys of a great warrior and general still with his troops.

The terrain they were in now was beginning to hint at the desert ahead of them, apparently still a day's march, Amkethran mercifully only another day in from there. But as they travelled down the main road, on foot as the party preferred, the trees were of types Sarevok's education told him were more suited to drier climes, and the grass on the verge yellowing slightly under the harsh sun and absence of rain in some time.

Haer'Dalis had remained with the army as promised. The bard's presence had been jarring to Sarevok, and he was quite happy that he would be staying behind, most likely just for the fact that he would have a captive audience for all of his songs and performances amongst bored soldiers. The party had proven that they did not need him.

Theirs was a party incapable of travelling in some sort of reasonable group, as well, always splitting off into side groups. Harrian strode ahead of the others, having succeeded at passable navigation when sticking with simple roads and signs, resolutely not talking to anyone, the rest left in his wake in a vague group. Reynald was resuming the conversation with Imoen that had been held in the tavern in Saradush – namely, music. Haer'Dalis' offers of teaching her how to play the lute might have been with an ulterior motive, but the Fallen Paladin seemed intent on chasing after the opportunity.

"Harrian _has _given it away that you can actually sing," Reynald was taunting her slightly, a faint smirk on his lips as Sarevok stepped up to them, keeping only a faint distance but still listening.

"Oh, he has, has he?" Imoen mused aloud, giving the back of Harrian's head a wry look. "Then leave me with singing, I can't play the lute. If you want a playing partner, actually, then ask him. He's passable."

"I thought the two of you got booed off the stage at Candlekeep?" Reynald recalled, his smirk broadening a little.

"Sure. When he sang. Then he realised he sounded like a dying cat and made a vague effort to learn how to play the lute. Gorion always wanted him to have _some _skills beyond being able to pick locks better than me!" Imoen chuckled, shaking her head.

"Is this true, Harrian? Are you musical?" Reynald called out to their leader, and even Sarevok could see that a subject of such levity being discussed was calming down everyone. Another thing to not understand. These were serious times, and joking could see them killed.

"Absolutely not!" Harrian retorted over his shoulder.

"You played at the Friendly Arm!" Imoen reminded him, fighting a grin.

Jaheira groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "The first night I met these two, they put on a musical performance in the tavern," she mumbled, shaking her head, but this merely brought out another bark of laughter from Reynald.

"Then perhaps we should regale the others with some entertainment around the campfire tonight," the Fallen Paladin sniggered. "If you play my lute, and Imoen and I provide a duet…" His voice trailed off, overtaken by too much sniggering.

"I haven't played in over a year. I wasn't even very good in the first place," Harrian confessed, his distance fading a little in the face of normality.

"You seemed to collect plenty of gold," Jaheira recalled, looking as if she wished she couldn't summon the details to memory so easily.

"That was because Imoen sung every bawdy song in her repertoire! I only needed to produce a few poxy chords as backup!"

"I really don't know that many bawdy songs," Imoen retorted innocently.

Even Anomen scoffed at this. "My lady, you grew up in a tavern frequented by many a travelling bard. I find it hard to believe you do not know every rude song ever sung in the Sword Coast."

"It's nice to know you have such faith in me, Anomen," Imoen told him dryly, rolling her eyes.

Sarevok snorted. "And to think that my assassins could not locate you when you were putting on performances in every tavern from Baldur's Gate to Nashkel."

"Well, Sarevok, you did hire the most incompetent bounty hunters who ever walked the Realms," Jaheira told him, a little of her relaxed cheer fading at this point.

"I was not responsible for it. I left it to that idiot Angelo."

"Then, yes, it's not a surprise then didn't find us. Angelo was a supreme fool," Harrian said dismissively, shaking his head. "But anyway, we had _some _semblance of subtlety. We only played at the Friendly Arm because we needed money, and we did do the act under a pseudonym. 'The Corias Twins'."

There was a faint silence, which ultimately Anomen managed to find the strength to break. "That does not sound very subtle, considering your names."

Jaheira shook her head. "Corias is the name of no family either of them have been close to," she said, snorting a little. "It became an assumed name after fame spread, and sometimes a safe family name to hide behind. People were looking for a youth from Candlekeep, ward of Gorion, not some townsman with an unfamiliar name." She glanced at Imoen and Harrian, who were wearing faintly nostalgic expressions by now. "Where was the name from? I forget."

"A book we used to read," Harrian chuckled. "A bard, wily in wits, great in talent, and so forth. It was Imoen's idea."

"Yeah, well, you read the book first," Imoen retorted.

Reynald glanced at Anomen and Sarevok. "I am sorry for even getting us onto this subject of conversation," he said wryly.

"Old times. Long gone," Harrian mumbled a little dismissively, before picking up the pace again to step ahead of the party. The others similarly broke off into their own separate conversations, Reynald moving on in musical discussions to pester Anomen about the choirs the Order once organised.

Sarevok looked at their leader with an evaluating eye, dropping out of conversations himself. He seemed more tired since the fall of Yaga-Shura, every step seemed heavier. When approached he would act more or less the same as usual, smiling the same as before, laughing the same as before. But if left to his own devices, Sarevok had noticed how he would become withdrawn, watching rather than participating, or staying away from people altogether. If the others had noticed, they had not acted on it. But Sarevok, being an observer himself, was well aware of this.

He picked up his pace a little to draw ahead of the other four, and fell into step beside Harrian. The Bhaalspawn didn't openly acknowledge his presence at first, though it was clear he was aware that Sarevok was there; they merely walked in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a long moment.

"We should be travelling at the head of an army," Sarevok said at last, eyeing Harrian so as to note his reaction. He didn't get one beyond a faint grunt.

"We'd be slower if we still travelled with Asrael. And I'm no general." Harrian scowled a little when he did finally speak, shaking his head slightly. "Granted, I've read books… an awful lot of books… but I'm a completely untested military commander people are now believing can defeat anyone. I shall leave the army matters to Asrael, and continue doing what I do best." He glanced over at the tall warrior. "Which is this."

"You have half of the south swearing its allegiance to you," Sarevok pointed out. "That is the sort of power and loyalty which no other Bhaalspawn sees. They bring others together because they promise them influence and wealth and fighting. You promise something else."

Harrian rolled his eyes. "No, they just think I do."

"You promise them freedom and hope." Sarevok was finding even his own words tasting a little sour, but he had examined the situation, spoken to soldiers, and was finding it hard to reach any other conclusion. "I found it hard to believe, but it is because you do _not _listen to Bhaal's whispering that you bring others around you."

Harrian smiled a little at this, and gave him a sideways glance. "You're finally figuring out that Bhaal's way was not the right way?"

"I worked that out when you killed me," Sarevok replied wryly. "Piecing it together was harder." He sighed a little. "I do not like what I see, brother, but the evidence is hard to ignore. You fight Bhaal, and you rise to levels beyond those of the Children who listen to his every word. Myself, Illasera, Yaga-Shura… You beat them when by all rights you should be dead. That suggests you have something they do not. And the one thing that is most different is that you do not revel in your blood."

"You said that made me weak," Harrian mused thoughtfully.

"As I said, the evidence is hard to ignore." Sarevok shifted a little. "You might be one of the most powerful mortals the realms have ever seen. And we must ask why? That which does not kill us makes us stronger. Has fighting Bhaal given you a greater resolve, a greater strength than others?" He shrugged. "I do not know if it matters. But the fact remains that you are in a position of nearly unprecedented power. There are many people of Tethyr who feel more loyalty towards you than their own monarch!"

"It's not something I've encouraged. But if we need an army to beat the Five, then an army we shall use," Harrian agreed, looking rather uncomfortable at Sarevok's statement.

"Indeed. You have great power. You could continue to do great things." Sarevok continued, made a little giddy by his own words. "The road I took to power was wrong, I see that now. I listened to Bhaal, and I killed. And when you brought me back I thought I had fallen because Bhaal had instructed me wrongly – either betrayed me to see my downfall or had just been wrong. But I am beginning to see that it was what I did as a man as much as what I did as a Bhaalspawn that contributed to my death."

Harrian grimaced a little, looking as if he had swallowed a sour grape. "I think Bhaal gave you a certain way of thinking in life that was hard, and is still hard, to shake off."

Sarevok shook his head. "I had two fathers who made me the villain, and only one of them was the Lord of Murder." He chuckled a little, despite this. "Brother, you do not want godhood, and I understand it. I think I might understand why. But you have gathered around you a force and a loyalty that could be unparalleled. Your good deeds are making you a symbol, and symbols have strength."

Harrian's expression now shifted onto the verge of horror. "No, no… you're not understanding." He grimaced unhappily. "You died because you wanted power and were willing to do anything to get it. Whether or not Bhaal gave you such a goal and lack of scruples or if they came from Reiltar, I don't know," he admitted, "but that's why you died. Taking the army and using it for power would be no different."

Sarevok glanced at him. "Are you saying all bids for power end in evil?"

"No, of course not…" Harrian paused, gathering his thoughts, and Sarevok jumped in.

"Then you could be a leader amongst men, rather than a servant amongst Gods," he stated quickly, urgently. "And all I ask is that you do not forget me, or the others amongst us who have served at your side."

"You really don't understand!" Harrian exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air. "I don't _want _to rule over others. There is no right-hand man that I'm going to need to help rule, because I won't be ruling. The army is a means to an end." He looked the tall warrior in the eye. "I just want to live. I don't want to be a God. I don't want power. I don't want to be a general, and I don't want the loyalty of thousands. With or without Bhaal's intervention. When this is all over, I intend to head off and find a life where I can help people on a much smaller basis, without having everything be about me and my fate. I'm an adventurer at heart, but that's the extent of my delusions of grandeur. We'll go our separate ways, probably, lead our separate lives."

Sarevok frowned. "You would let me go wherever I wanted, do whatever I wanted, when this is over?" he asked, bemused.

Harrian shrugged. "Sure."

"Even knowing who I am, what I have done?"

Harrian gave him a look. "If you were the same man you were, you would have asked to be a god's right hand man, not an emperor's. You're changing, Sarevok. You've _changed_." He sighed. "If you left our company and I heard of you hurting others, I would deal with you, the same as I would deal with any other villain, though it would be more my responsibility than it was with others to make sure you did not hurt people. But I do not think you to be the same bloodthirsty warrior anymore." He smirked a little.

Sarevok blinked at him for a moment. "I am still a killer. Do not forget that," he stumbled without conviction.

Harrian's golden eyes lit up in a familiarly disturbing way. "Does your heart beat faster in every battle? I'm sure it does. But does the blood make you want to kill faster, throw yourself at your foe and murder them with your bare hands? Do you lose yourself in the battle until all that you can see is death? Do you feel as if you would weep with sorrow when the battle is over, not for the pain of the battle but because the killing is over?" His voice caught in urgency, the words tumbling out in a way Sarevok was sure was unintentional. "Does blood make you feel _hungry_? Because if this happens to all mortals, do tell me. It might be comforting."

Sarevok remained silent for a moment. Once upon a time, he knew, he would have told Harrian to embrace the hunger. No more. "I shall… I shall dwell on this, brother," he muttered, falling back and allowing Harrian to stride on, tagging along to the end of the rest of the bulk of the party, taking up the rear, thinking in silence.


	34. Chapter XXXIV: Public Enemy

**Chapter XXXIV: Public Enemy**

"I hate sand," Anomen cursed as his footing slid a little under him, and he continued to bake even under the long white cloak and hood he had secured before they had entered the expansive desert. "I will be shaking it out of my boots and armour for years once we leave this wretched wasteland. How much further _is _it to Amkethran?"

"Another fifteen miles, maybe," Harrian replied, he too under the swathes of white cloth. "We should be there by nightfall." There was a pause as he raised the battered parchment which was the map they had purchased at the last village. "And there is an oasis a half hour's walk away. We can have a break there."

A quick glance at Jaheira gave Anomen confirmation of Harrian's navigating, and so he just lowered his head, focusing on the ground before him, and taking it a step at a time. He was no stranger to marching, to moving onward at a constant rate without any guarantee of stopping, but the heat and terrain were both unfamiliar to him.

For the fifth time in recent moments, he reached down to pull out his water flask, wishing he had been able to take off his armour – but there were dangerous beasts in this desert, and Anomen would prefer to suffer discomfort than a lack of protection in a battle. He was not like Jaheira or Reynald, warriors who moved with lesser protection. Anomen knew his own limits, and a need for plate in battle was one of them.

Unfortunately, it made him sweat obscenely in this heat, even with the white cloak reflecting the sun, and metal gauntlets made him fumble with the water flask to the extent that he could not get a grip on the top. Thus it was with gratitude that he nodded to Imoen when she suddenly appeared to pull it off and pass him the opened flask.

"My thanks, my lady," he mumbled dryly as he took a healthy swig of disgustingly warm water. Any oasis ahead would be used to refill their water supplies, no doubt about it. He offered his flask back to Imoen when he was done, feeling water dripping into his beard from desperate and faintly sloppy drinking.

She took the flask with a thin smile, and he marvelled at how, more than any of the others, she seemed to be at complete ease in their surroundings. She wore the desert garb with a comfort and poise that made her seem to be almost a part of the sand, and although her own drinking was with a thirsty desperation, Anomen found it hard to believe her claim that this was the first desert she had ever seen outside of a book. Jaheira, being of these lands and well-travelled besides, and Reynald with his southern campaigns, and Sarevok, from far-off Sembia, were all, if not accustomed, aware of the intricacies of desert travel, and yet none of them had Imoen's comfort with her surroundings. Harrian shared a little of it, as well, leaving Anomen as easily the worst adjusted to the sands.

"Does Sarevok still bother you?" the priest asked quietly, his eyes back on the difficult terrain they walked upon.

"He never… quite… bothered me," Imoen stumbled. "It's just… there are things. Things he knows about. More than anyone can." Even though she had to know how the words could come out to be misinterpreted, she said them regardless, and as he gave her a sharp glance her expression was one of regret.

"You cannot talk to Harrian about these things?" Anomen muttered, pulling his hood down a little further over his eyes to block out the low sun. "After all, he is not a centre of iniquity and vile belief in vile blood."

"Vile blood?" Imoen repeated, and it was Anomen's turn to wince. She didn't continue with that train of conversation, though, just shook her head. "Harrian has his own troubles. Sarevok… I don't trust him. Or like him. Or forgive him. But he can look at the taint more than anyone can without being a Bhaalspawn and being blinded by it." Imoen shifted a little, sand scattering underfoot. "Besides… he has a small piece of my soul. That lets him understand things more than most."

Anomen kept his gaze on the ground, not trusting himself to look at her. "You cannot talk to me about these things?"

There was a pause as Imoen seemed to realise her insinuations. "Anomen… I tell you all I can. You help. You listen. You can't imagine how much that helps me. But there are some things that are for the Bhaalspawn… or former Bhaalspawn… alone. You understand?"

"I understand _that_," Anomen muttered, only keeping his voice down because he did not want this argument to go too public to the rest of the party. "But it seems as if there are some things that you can discuss with anyone but me." He grimaced, cursing under his breath at her shocked expression. "You hold me at arm's length. Constantly. Back… before… when I didn't know of your… heritage, you would still talk to others. Jaheira. Haer'Dalis. Tell them of your pains, your worries. And looking back, I could say that it was just because you were concealing the truth from me."

_'Just' because of that, Anomen? _The stray thought was treacherous but made its point.

"And yet, now that I am… in the clear…" He couldn't help but sneer that, "I can only see that you still don't tell me things. I want to help you, Imoen. I want to see you get through this. I want to see you remaining true to yourself, and I want to see you fight off the taint." His breath was becoming a shade more ragged, both from his frustration and from the large dune they were just climbing that Harrian had called out the oasis lay beyond. "And I can't do that if you don't tell me a Gods-damned thing."

She didn't reply, and Anomen felt his anger bubbling a shade more. It was unfair, and he knew the problems lay on her shoulders as well, but was continuing to discover the physical impossibility of carrying on with his daily life in this way. It was eating away at him as much as anyone else.

"So… I need you to let me in, Imoen," Anomen mumbled, keeping his gaze on every step, and not on her. "Because from day one you have been leaving me behind, at the door, and if you want me to help you… you have to give me more to help you with." He took a deep breath, releasing it a little shakily. "I can't help you like this. And if you want me to just sit around and hold you and not say anything and not know anything, then…"

He paused, cursing himself as he realised the ending of that sentence. "…then that is what I will do. But it'll be killing me. Because I need you to let me in."

"This doesn't look good!" Harrian's exclamation from the top of the hill mercifully interrupted their discourse, cutting off any reply Imoen could give and yanking their attention immediately to the present. Anomen picked up the pace to reach the dune's summit, and let out a low curse of concurrence at the sight that awaited them.

There were maybe only a hundred troops, but that was ninety-four more than they numbered, camped at the edge of the oasis, and not looking as relaxed or fat and lazy as the Yaga-Shura troops had. On the contrary, they looked very ready, and very intent in their focus towards the party.

"Who are they?" Imoen asked, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun as the party paused on the top of the dune.

Reynald pointed to a banner flying from one of the tents. "They fly the colours of the King and Queen of Tethyr." He grimaced, glancing at the others. "It would appear as if they are… waiting for us."

Harrian swore. "Asrael told me that there were some very important people looking to reel we Bhaalspawn in – and he and I in particular – for what happened at Saradush. It looks as if this was to be unavoidable. Let's see if we can avoid bloodshed." With a grimace, he set off down the hill at a surprisingly jaunty pace.

They approached the soldiers to be greeted by a wall of pikes and shields, and noticeable archers behind the prickly wall of weapons, but as they drew nearer, keeping their hands away from their weapons. Anomen knew that if they had tried to flee, they would most likely be chased, and Harrian's point that the rulers of Tethyr would need to be dealt at some inevitable point was most correct.

"Hold, Bhaalspawn!" a voice from behind the row of pike men called out, and the party clattered to an uncertain halt. "Step no further, or my archers will turn you into pincushions before you can retaliate." Two of the soldiers stepped aside to allow a new man to move through their ranks, standing in front of their weapons. He was clearly the leader, dressed in a fine suit of armour, his head helmed but standing with an air of authority.

"I am General Jamis Tombelthen, representative of the King and Queen of Tethyr. I assume you are aware, Lord Corias, of the decree that you, and the others of your kind, are to be rounded up for the safety of the country… immediately?" The man seemed to swell a little with self-importance, but he was well within range to just step behind the protective wall if at all possible. Pompous, Anomen decided, but not stupid.

Harrian merely drew himself up to his full height and met the gaze of Tombelthen. "I assume that this is so none of the Bhaalspawn currently marauding the lands will be able to continue with their heinous acts?" he asked quietly, keeping his tone neutral.

"Indeed. Such as the destruction of Saradush, for which you are responsible," Tombelthen said coldly. "Throw down your weapons, and you and your comrades will be unharmed. We will hold you in captivity, true, and evaluate the extent of your guilt before taking action. Have no fear."

Harrian's eyes flashed in a manner Anomen knew to be dangerous. "I am _not _responsible for what happened at Saradush. The Bhaalspawn responsible lies dead. Yaga-Shura, the fire giant the army of Tethyr was defeated by? Do you recall him?" He sneered a little, taking a step forward tauntingly – nobody reacted. "A dangerous, immoral Bhaalspawn bent on destruction. And I was the only one to stop him." There was no pride in his voice, merely the statement of fact.

Tombelthen looked uncertain, but still pressed on. "Regardless, my orders are to take you into confinement. By force, if necessary."

"Of course. And you know of Yaga-Shura's allies?" Harrian asked deceptively innocently. "As dangerous as he, as bent on destruction as he. You intend to stop them, too?"

"Indeed. They are all threats," Tombelthen said, settling back into a shade of comfort.

"So what makes you think you'll succeed this time, where you failed before?" Harrian raised an eyebrow accusingly.

"Yaga-Shura has fallen. I keep that in mind," Tombelthen spat back, not willing to be goaded into this argument.

"Because I killed him. You take me away, lock me up, who will there be to stop the allies of Yaga-Shura? Another three dangerous Bhaalspawn? Because the armies of Tethyr can't do it. I seem to be the only one who can." Again, there was no pride in Harrian's voice, just cold practicality.

Tombelthen grimaced, looking at the ground for a long moment before he glanced back at Harrian. "My orders are to lock you up, Lord Corias."

"Your orders are to remove the one chance the south has of not being destroyed by the Bhaalspawn menace," Harrian said softly.

"And you? You are a hero?" Tombelthen looked sceptical. "You are raising an army to defeat these Bhaalspawn. All very well and good and heroic. And afterwards, you will just take your four thousand men and just… leave?"

"I'll tell them to go wherever they wish. They are being paid and fed and believe that I can do more for their homes and families than you, the government, can. I will finish what I have to do, and then I will leave." Harrian stood straight, and for the first time as Anomen looked at him, he thought he could see a hint of the hero and general these people raved about.

"Forgive me if my scepticism suggests that it would be best to deal with you when you do _not _have an army at your back," Tombelthen replied wryly, though made no move.

"I can. But I cannot forgive you if your scepticism means that these lands are left powerless against the force of the Five. How have the armies of Tethyr fared in battle against the Bhaalspawn so far?" Harrian spoke as he might when trying to test a child on something they had learnt.

"Poorly." Tombelthen scowled. "Do not assume we shall fail again."

"Why not? Why should I, or the people of Tethyr, assume that you will be successful? Why should next time be any different than last time? I am the only one who has proven to be successful in killing the Bhaalspawn." Harrian shook his head, and glanced at the others. "My friends and I are going to move on, now. We have work to do. And you are not going to stop us."

Tombelthen seemed uncertain again. "We are not?"

"No. You are not." Harrian jerked his head in a southern direction, before stepping onwards, moving away from the force that lay by the oasis, the other five falling into step beside him, none of them speaking. Amkethran would still be a few hours away, and to get there by nightfall would require much walking.

As Harrian had predicted, Jamis Tombelthen and his troops did not stop them.


	35. Chapter XXXV: Pious Devotion

**Chapter XXXV: Pious Devotion**

"At last. Some semblance of civilization," Reynald sighed, pushing back the hood of his white cloak as he looked up from their sandy footing to the village that sprawled up the mountainside before them. The buildings were mostly small and stone, and white in colour to reflect the sun away and banish heat, but for the most part rather unremarkable. The whole of Amkethran was unremarkable, in fact, save the few minor signs that caught the eye. The obvious poverty of the village as they approached the outskirts of the lower levels. The men in apparently unnecessary yet high-quality and handsome crimson armour that bustled about on business. And above everything, at the top of the area of buildings, the sandy-brown walls of the monastic fortress of Amkethran.

"A semblance, at least," Sarevok said dryly, standing next to him, his own gaze clearly more on the fortress than the battered village. "Though I have seen more development in swamps. There is no cultivation here, and the trade routes across the desert too minor to warrant a settlement for caravan support. Why would such a place exist?"

"Because of the monastery," Harrian interjected. "From what I've read, the trade routes have only faltered in recent months because of the Bhaalspawn chaos. There is mining in those mountains, and protection given by the monastery, and thus caravans were safe to move through." He had walked past the two of them in their examination of the village, and was starting towards the nearest house. "Come on. I bet it's a climb up to the monastery."

"Yet another reason to bring this madness to an end, I suppose," Reynald murmured thoughtfully, before shaking his head and falling into step behind Harrian and the rest of the party, winding their way into the village.

Amkethran wasn't that small. It wasn't large by any stretch of the imagination, but as they walked through Reynald could see that Harrian had been right – there definitely were hints of a greater prosperity at one point in recent history.

"Surely we have better concerns than minor villages?" Sarevok scoffed, raising an eyebrow as he cast glances about the villagers and their meagre shelters. The party easily attracted attention of the locals, most of whom stopped to stare at the party in awe. They were not like the strange armoured men, nor the monks, yet were clearly foreign. But a glare from Sarevok was enough to send the hesitant packing.

"Our concerns and our efforts revolve around all those afflicted by the Bhaalspawn problems," Reynald said, a little mechanically. "We do not act solely for our own benefit. The troubles affect so many. Does this not encourage you to fight harder so their plight might be ended?" The last question was clearly phrased as something of an obvious test.

Sarevok's expression was mixed when Reynald glanced back to look at him. "To an extent," he admitted grudgingly at last. "It seems… needless."

Reynald turned back and smirked a little, quietly. "You learn."

"Do not patronise me, dark knight." Sarevok's response was quick, harsh, and only broadened Reynald's hidden smile. "You have no ground to stand on to lecture of kindness towards villages."

Reynald's smile did shift to a grimace, but he softened it with the curious raising of an eyebrow. "Then take it as a comment from someone who has learnt the lesson. It's not completely selfless. It feels good to do these things for people."

"If you are alive at the end of them and do not sacrifice your life needlessly for people whose names you have never learnt."

"_Most _things are better if you are alive at the end of them, Sarevok," Reynald said, intentionally obtusely.

"Oh, stop your bickering, you two. We've only just got here, we have no idea what's going on," Harrian called out from the front, looking back at them. "Let's not assume things."

"Like that the monks will come and welcome us in a full force that outnumbers us, looking less than welcoming?" Jaheira asked dryly.

"Like that. Let's not –"

"Because they're over there."

Harrian paused, looking back ahead as the party gathered behind him, indeed seeing the group of monks filtering through the small streets towards them. Villagers disappeared more quickly in the sight of the monks than they had in the sight of the group, and thus it was instinctive that they all reached to rest hands on their weapons when the welcome party reached them.

"Do not go for your weapons, Lord Corias, for you would all be dead before you could draw your sword," the lead monk, who looked much the same as all of his eight companions, said lethargically as he stepped to stand in front of them.

"That's a bit of a presumption," Harrian said slowly, though Reynald noted his hand didn't move at all. "And why does everyone insist on calling me 'Lord'? I'm no lord, no noble, not in the slightest."

"People have problems believing that the greatest Child of Bhaal was a snotty-nosed schoolchild from Candlekeep," Sarevok said wryly. "They much prefer to paint you as noble in earthly form as well as… greater."

"Still sore about being defeated by the snotty-nosed schoolchild?" Reynald asked innocently, winning himself an evil glare in response.

"You are here to see Balthazar, correct?" the lead monk asked, ignoring their banter. When they nodded, he inclined his head up the mountainside. "Then follow me. He will deal with you. But on his terms only."

The progress through the upper echelons of the village was quick with the locals hiding from sight at the procession of monks and adventurers, but they drew to a halt when they did finally reach the huge gates around the outside of the monastery, built into the sides of the mountain. Here, the sand whipped around into their eyes and ears a little more, and although there was less of the blistering heat from the wind, the party still wrapped their cloaks around them to drag protection from the stinging sand.

"Wait here. Balthazar shall be out presently," the lead monk – or was it a different one? – said, before disappearing through the gates.

There was a silence as the party waited, their gaze more on the village that sprawled down the mountainside below them. Life was poking out from the buildings again, in a tentative manner, and began to operate. But the armoured individuals striding about had been unaffected by the appearances of either adventurers or monks.

"Who are they? Those mercenaries?" Sarevok asked one of the monks standing by the gate.

"Balthazar will address any of your questions," the monk replied mechanically. "Whether or not he answers them is of his choice."

"What makes you think they're mercenaries?" Reynald said, glancing at Sarevok curiously.

Sarevok shrugged. "They have the manner. Do you not see it?"

Reynald observed a small group of them critically. "Aye, I do," he conceded at last. "They hold themselves with that competent arrogance owned by most hired warriors. Of being good at what they do, and being paid for it."

"Swaggering like Harrian does?" Jaheira asked dryly.

"Oh, they could never match up to my swaggering and posturing," Harrian said, smirking, and for good measure he took a step forward, hands on hips, chest puffed out, legs akimbo, gazing off into the distance with an expression of intentionally mocking heroic intensity.

There was a pause, broken by a faint titter from Imoen. "There are just _too _many jokes to be made here, so I'll stay quiet and try to not die of laughter," she guffawed before clamping a hand across her mouth.

He gave her a deep bow. "I aim to please… and to act like a fool for entertainment."

"And succeed at the latter, definitely," Jaheira said wryly. "Must you prance around like a buffoon?"

"Surely it keeps life interesting."

"Like your battle plan at Saradush kept things interesting?"

A stiffer silence greeted this one, the first addressing of Harrian's handling of Yaga-Shura's army. "I had that one all in hand. It worked, and I knew what I was doing."

"You didn't warn _us _of that," Jaheira pointed out, though Reynald was more than a little relieved to see that the tension under this was light – it had worked, Harrian had not led them false, and Jaheira was merely poking him on it rather than outright yelling at him.

"You would have argued." He smiled sheepishly. "But it was clever, and underhand, and it worked, right? That should win me points?"

"It worked." Jaheira nodded, her own slight smirk tugging at her lips. "It won you points of 'Harrian being cunning', points for 'Harrian being sneaky', points for 'Harrian's plans working' – which needed some desperate padding, for sure – and points for 'Harrian being a total idiot'."

Harrian tilted his head slightly to one side, giving her a curious glance. "I don't believe this. You've got an entire category devoted to me being stupid?"

"A whole page, actually."

"Ahem."

The party turned to see the large gateway to the monastery open, and for the small, bald, wiry and rather unimpressive man in robes who could only be Balthazar step through. Well, strictly speaking, he could have been any one of the many monks living in the monastery, but his posture and the expressions of the other monks suggested at something… more.

"So. You must be the Bhaalspawn Melissan has told me of. I have been expecting you," Balthazar said, fixing Imoen with a look.

Imoen blinked. "Sure, maybe… but I think you want to talk to him." She gestured to Harrian, who had stepped into a slightly more normal attitude from his intentionally foolish posturing, and nodded in his slightly more business-focused, authoritative air.

"I am Harrian Corias," he said, keeping his voice and expression neutral. "You must be Balthazar. Melissan did tell us to come and find you. That you could help us in our tasks."

"You hunt Sendai and Abazigal?" Balthazar asked. "I heard of your success against Yaga-Shura. Impressive, indeed. It is necessary for some Children of Bhaal to fight against each other for reasons beyond blood."

"Reasons are many. I try to make sure blood isn't one of them." Harrian shook his head. "I've heard rumours of Sendai being the drow who's raising the army, gathering the scraps of Yaga-Shura's to add to her own? Do you know anything of this?"

"I know most of the happenings of the Children in the south," Balthazar said. "And yes, Sendai has been building an army of drow… and surfacers, too. She was the military might, after Yaga-Shura. Illasera was the hunter, Yaga-Shura the brute force, Sendai the strategist, Abazigal the brains…"

"And the fifth?"

"I know not," Balthazar said reluctantly. "But word has it you have an army that might well be able to defeat Sendai? Approaching the desert at this moment? The troops who helped defeat Yaga-Shura, and many other men of the south who have been flocking to your banner?"

"Aye." Harrian grimaced. "I am not a military leader."

"The Bhaaltaint does seem to manifest itself in different… strengths. From true loner, to leader of groups, to full-scale warfare. A Bhaalspawn will generally have one way in which they are most suited to bringing about death. You are best in a group. Some are best solo, like Illasera. Then there are those like Sendai, Yaga-Shura, and your Asrael who understand the best way to make an army of thousands inflict death," Balthazar said slowly, his voice grim.

"Then where is Sendai, and where is Abazigal?"

"Abazigal, the half-dragon, has his fortress further into the mountains. He is the lone Bhaalspawn, for the most part. The student of the prophecies, and thus dangerous in different ways to his comrades. In defeating him, you could also learn a lot," Balthazar said thoughtfully. "I can provide you with a map to direct you to his enclave."

"And Sendai?" Harrian asked dubiously.

"She is west of here, marching north. She had been set to join Yaga-Shura, and then they would sweep on through the south with their joint armies, but you interrupted that. Thus she has changed her intention," was the explanation.

"To what?" Reynald asked, frowning.

"To your army," Balthazar said, shrugging. "She, rightly, sees you are the primary threat to the rise of the Five. And she knows that you and your army must be dealt with before she can proceed to lay waste to the southern lands. So you do not need to be clever to hunt her down. She will come to you, or to your Captain Asrael and his men, soon enough."

Harrian looked at the others. "Perhaps we should join up with the army and face Sendai directly, then," he mused, frowning.

"I would suggest exploring Abazigal's lair, actually," Balthazar suggested. "For you could learn much that you could hold over Sendai's head. And, as you said, you are no military leader. Your presence would do… what?"

"He is right," Reynald said, nodding firmly. "If Abazigal is the scholar of the Five…"

"Then access to extensive copies of the Prophecies would be most useful," Sarevok finished, then turned to fix Balthazar with a look. "Though I must ask how and why you know so much."

"I have spies in place. The affairs of the Bhaalspawn interest me, as they interest others such as Melissan," Balthazar said blankly, fixing Sarevok with a cold look.

"Not _quite _as they interest others such as Melissan," Imoen corrected slowly. "After all, she's not a Bhaalspawn. Whereas you, like all other non-immoral Bhaalspawn, have an interest in seeing that the prophecies do not end in blood and death for all?"

Balthazar's cold look shifted to her, but Imoen did not seem to falter at all in his piercing gaze. "You may use Amkethran for all you wish," he said finally. "But do not enter the monastery, and do not interfere with my own plans." He pulled some scrolls from out of his robes and passed them to Harrian. "Good luck in your travels and fights, Corias. I think you may need it… but fight hard, and you shall prevail." His brow furrowed. "And it is not just your siblings and their followers you need fight against."

"I always fight," Harrian said, nodding stiffly. "Have no fear of that."

"I shall always fear. Forgive me if I only truly trust myself in this endeavour," Balthazar said sharply, then turned on his heel and started back for the gates.

There was a long pause as the gate closed behind him, leaving the party in the stinging sand of the whipping wind, above the village and surrounded by glaring monks.

"Well," Harrian said slowly. "If he trusts himself, he's doing a damn sight better than me."


	36. Chapter XXXVI: Hand of Justice

**Chapter XXXVI: Hand of Justice**

The town seemed to have snapped out of its dazed air as the party descended the hill into its midst. Curious children stuck their heads out from around corners to gape at the adventurers before being urged on by mothers throwing cautious glances. Market sellers tried to press all manner of cheap trinkets and shrivelled fruit upon them, and as Harrian noticed the increasingly destitute state of the village and the people, he found himself forking out a fortune to pay for rubbish that he didn't really want to buy. It seemed as if they needed money, though he was not sure where they would spend it.

"Is there an inn anywhere in the village?" he asked one man as he passed over some silver in exchange for what he claimed was a mango. Harrian wondered if Anomen could use it in his sling, should the chance arise.

The merchant bobbed his head, shoving the silvers into his pocket as if they might disappear at a moment's notice. "Yes, m'lord. South-west corner… but you might have trouble finding yourself a room, the mercenaries have set up camp next to it."

That was the final piece of the puzzle. The men in crimson chain marching around in a self-important manner and prompting the villagers to scatter before them. Harrian would have thought them a brutish city guard had it not been for the presence of the monastery; them being mercenaries, probably linked to Balthazar and his mysterious operations in some way, made perfect sense.

As they reached the town square, Harrian became aware of a crowd that had gathered around a podium in the centre. He had been prepared to dismiss it if as just some street show until he heard the scream of fear – one which definitely hadn't been acted.

The crowd made way for the well-armed and armoured adventuring party to push their way to the front, where there was indeed a drama unfolding that had the villagers rooted to the spot as a captive audience as well as any theatre production could have done.

There were only four players. Two of the men in crimson chain, one of whom gripped a kneeling girl by the wrist – the obvious screamer – and, standing a short distance away, a round man in greater fineries than the rest of the villagers, looking intensely concerned and afraid but rather ineffective.

"Mayor!" the mercenary holding the girl called out, fixing the fat man with a glare. "Your daughter was found stealing from our camp! What do you have to say for yourself?" He had his sword drawn, and by now was pointing it most threateningly at the girl's throat.

"You must understand, gentlemen… we villagers have no food, nothing to eat, no way of surviving out here now the monastery has withdrawn its support," the mayor pleaded, taking a step forward. He was stopped in attempted intervention by the spear of the other mercenary prodding him ever so lightly in his belly.

"I care not," the first mercenary said viciously. "She still sneaked into our camp and stole five hundred gold! If you return it, our retribution might not be wreaked down upon the village as a whole, but the girl must be punished!"

"I… I no longer have it!" the major practically sobbed. "We spent it… supplies from the smugglers…"

Despite the dire circumstances, Harrian still filed away 'smugglers' for future reference in his mind.

"Then we shall have to do something about that. After all, this girl is the daughter of the mayor. The mayor speaks for the whole town." The mercenary released the girl, who fell, panting, to the dusty ground. "Her life shall be forfeit, and then we shall exact payment for this crime!"

But before he could raise his sword, before even Harrian could intervene, Sarevok had stepped forward, the sunlight glinting off his armour in a way that gave him an angelic glow the party knew he didn't deserve.

"Hold, thugs," he commanded, and Sarevok had been gifted with the sort of voice and stature that demanded to be noticed. The two mercenaries did indeed, though they did not withdraw entirely – merely fixed him with suspicious, cautious, and surly glances.

"Who are you?" the spearman spat, shifting his polearm in the direction of the huge warrior.

"That is not your concern," Sarevok replied, in a voice cold enough to freeze the desert. "Just see me as someone intervening to save you."

"Save us?" The first mercenary looked yet more dubious.

"There is no justice in murdering this girl. Death is too high a price to pay for a crime as petty as this," Sarevok said, fixing him with a piercing look that shifted the mercenary's suspicion to almost sheepishness. "My companions and I would not intervene in a local law dispute, but if you were to murder this girl, we would be forced to get involved."

Harrian found himself nodding firmly. "Uh… that's right," he added, wishing he sounded less like a lackey.

"You say we should just let this girl go? She _stole _from us!" the spearman declared. "The daughter of the village's mayor _stole _from us! We are guests in this town, here by the request of Balthazar himself, and this is the reception we receive from our hosts?"

"It is a crime, I agree. But death is not the correct punishment." Sarevok paused, frowning, then reached into his pack. "I am feeling benign today, and as it is clear these villagers are utterly destitute I shall pay for what she has stolen myself." He shifted around with gold in a bag, then tossed it to the swordsman, who caught it deftly, looking rather surprised.

"That's for the loss. Then what about the thieving itself?" he managed to say once he had recovered from the initial shock.

"I do know something of these lands, of these areas, of the sort of law there is around here. Death is not the punishment for crime… but there _is_ a punishment, no?" Sarevok raised an eyebrow, looking down at the girl, who whimpered a little, clearly more intimidated by than grateful towards her rescuer.

"My lord… I thank you… but please, we are a desperate people, if you could just find some mercy…" the mayor staggered forwards, but was fixed to the spot by a glare from Sarevok.

"My mercy was paying for what she stole. Now, she must be punished and must be shown that it is not acceptable. And I think these gentlemen would like some satisfaction and some guarantee that there shall be no repeat performance." Sarevok turned to the villagers, who were all captivated by him. "People of Amkethran… I suggest you watch this, and tell others, and do not repeat this crime."

Harrian stepped forward, his gut twisting. "Sarevok…"

"Silence." Sarevok's glare fixed him to the spot. It wasn't a sensation Harrian was used to. "I shall deal with this. You must let me make my choice."

"I… uh…" Again, Harrian ran out of words, and wished the chance to allow Sarevok to prove himself and the trust placed in him had not come at this particular point in time.

Sarevok turned to the girl, who was still spread out on the floor. "You must know… to not do this again," he instructed curtly, then moved almost quicker than the eye could follow as he whipped the Sword of Chaos from its sheath, swinging it over his head in a vicious blow.

There was another loud scream, this one of pain, and Harrian winced at both the sound and the sight as the girl rolled away, clutching at the bloody stump of her left arm. Sarevok ignored this as he kicked the hand away from him, then pulled out a cloth to wipe his sword clear of the staining blood.

"That is the punishment for theft. And I am sure it shall not happen again," he declared solemnly, then sheathed the Sword of Chaos and turned to face the party. "Now, perhaps if we could find that inn?"

The party proceeded through the streets of Amkethran in absolute grim silence this time. Street merchants were more tentative in approaching them, though Harrian was still buying their cheap wares, spending more money than a battered bronze plate or an old pendant would really deserve. But the attitude of amiable – and, to be honest, greedy – curiosity had grown more tentative after the display in the town centre.

"Our reputation here has already been established somewhat. Finding a room may be a challenge," Jaheira commented as they reached the inn finally, eyeing the mercenaries lounging outside and the windows of the tavern dubiously.

"It's worth a try, anyway," Harrian said, sighing as he stepped forward to push the doors open, walking into the inn's common room with an air of confidence that at least guaranteed they wouldn't be sent packing by any territorial men in red chain mail.

For the red mail was everywhere – of if the men were out of armour, a cloak, a headband, a sash, or something else red denoted their status as these mercenaries Balthazar seemed to have hired to do his work. The air was thick with the noise of their merriment, though it did drop a little as the six adventurers stepped inside, interrupting the revelling of the day.

Harrian paused only to glance around him to try and find the innkeeper, but it was Imoen who spotted a swarthy, rather swashbuckling man pouring glasses of wine for mercenaries over by the counter, and he followed her as she headed in that direction.

When the burly mercenary with a sword at his belt stepped out in front of Jaheira, he thought little of it. Some drunken idiot trying to impress friends who would almost certainly be dismissed by one of the druid's patented glares. When the man reached out to grab her by the arm, he paused, but made no move to interfere, because he was quite sure a few curt words would send him packing.

"'ere, darlin', what you think you're doin' in a run-down place like this?" the mercenary leered in a manner which had for centuries given those of his profession a bad name for being undisciplined. "Lookin' for some fun, I'd wager. I can give you that."

Harrian, pausing and half-turned to watch, merely hid a smirk as he wondered how Jaheira would deter the mercenary. Reynald gave him a glance which suggested the former paladin, in all of his knightly manners, was confused as to why the Bhaalspawn did not interfere on his lover's behalf, but Harrian's trust in Jaheira was complete enough to be certain she could deal with the situation without his presence. Hells, she'd probably do better without it.

Indeed, Jaheira's glare shifted down to the hand that rested on her arm until the mercenary removed it slowly. "Perhaps you should return to your wine, _sir_," she said coldly, arching an eyebrow. "Once the wine is out of your system, you may be worth acknowledging as more than a drunken fool."

The mercenary's expression darkened a little, and he straightened up, glaring. "You've got some tongue to you, lass, that be for sure. Mayhaps ye should be taught a lesson?"

"You couldn't teach anyone to tie their own bootlaces right now, let alone a lady manners," Jaheira said dismissively, turning away to continue trooping up to the bar, now completely ignoring the mercenary.

"'Ere! You don't turn your back on me!"

And this time, Harrian did react when the mercenary's hand reached for his sword, lunging forward instantly, yanking one of his throwing knifes out and plunging it into the grasping hand, through flesh and pinning it onto the surface of the table below.

Finally, the common room fell silent as the mercenary let out a scream of pain, and everyone turned to face the new stand-off.

"Manners?" Harrian hissed, his hand still wrapped around the knife that was hilt-deep in wood and flesh. "It seems you're the one who needs to be taught manners. I've been kind this time, just taking the hand, but I could have been in a worse mood and been a little more… harsh." The scent of blood was in the air, filling his nostrils, making him a little light-headed in a way almost reminiscent of how his earliest battles had left him feeling queasy… but it was not quite the same.

The mercenary let out a faintly desperate whimper. "I wus… jus' playin' around, mate…"

"Next time, don't play with swords." Harrian's voice was deeply dark and angry, yet still quiet in its threats. "Do you understand?" This time there was just the whimper and nothing else as a reply from the mercenary, who was writhing around his pinned hand. "_Do – you – understand?_"

Every harsh, sharp word Harrian snapped at this point was punctuated by the knife coming out and stabbing back down again to thumps of wood and crunches of bone and the sickening, wet sound of blades on flesh. Three short, sharp times the knife rose and fell, each time making a gorier mess of the mercenary's hand than had been made the previous strike.

There was no silence in the tavern at this, though not for other mercenaries reacting; the lone would-be swordsman was screaming in pain, on his knees in front of the table by now, and it was only at the final scream, a beg for mercy, that Harrian finally pulled his knife free.

He stared at the mercenary, writhing on the floor and gripping his liberated hand with low, pained moans, his red vision finally fading and some comprehension of what had happened reaching him.

"Uh…" was all he could summon as a finale to his actions, until he finally gathered his wits and reached down for one of the small, cheap healing potions he kept on him, rarely for his own use so much as that of others. He popped the cork, reaching out to grab the blood-stained wrist of the mercenary despite the man's weak protests, and poured half of it over the gory and mangled mess that was his right hand. There was a faint hissing noise but, although it was hard to tell under all of the blood that remained, the bones and flesh re-knitted themselves somewhat, albeit not completely.

"Drink the rest," Harrian instructed curtly, shoving the half-empty bottle into the mercenary's good hand, and straightening up, cleaning his knife on the corner of his desert robes absently. The crimson blood stained the white cloth rapidly, racing up the sleeve almost to the elbow of the absorbent robe.

There was still silence in the tavern at these sudden actions, broken only when Imoen finally turned to the stunned-seeming innkeeper and tapped him on the shoulder lightly. He jumped a little before turning to face her, blinking in a confused manner, but acknowledged her with a nervous nod and smile as Imoen returned one of her own hopeful, dazzling and now rather sheepish grins.

"I don't suppose, barkeep, that you've got three rooms free by any chance?"


	37. Chapter XXXVII: Complete Picture

**Chapter XXXVII: Complete Picture**

"I do not think I will ever be adjusted to this place," Harrian commented as he gnawed on the meat which might have been chicken, bought from a stall in Amkethran and taken down to the pocket plane, where they were pitching their tents for the night. It felt odd to camp under a green sky and all manner of strange statues and symbols of Bhaal, but the air was warm and the light would conveniently come when the party needed it or turn dark when slumber came. Harrian had expressed to have no control over the plane, and to have no desire to learn control, but there was certainly a subconscious influence affecting matters.

"Then perhaps we should try to make sure we do not need it for much longer," Anomen said, stirring the large pot of southern, slightly spicy stew in the middle of the circle of adventurers, gathered amongst their tents. "It is a little disconcerting, to tell the truth."

"Ignoring it is possible," Reynald insisted, finishing off the scraps left in his own bowl. They had thus far dined over plans of where to go tomorrow, and the atmosphere over them was thick, sleepy, and full of anticipation of active days to come.

"Especially from the inside of a tent." Imoen yawned, stretching greatly, then set her empty bowl and spoon down. "So I think that's my cue to go to bed. I'm getting a little sleepy. It's been a long day."

And indeed, it had, travelling across deserts and with all of the commotion in Amkethran. Getting a room at the inn had not been viable, not after their display, and so they had gathered food, tents, and gone back to the pocket plane to spend the night. It kept them away from awed villagers, whose interest had become more distant after Sarevok's disciplinary action in the square, and angry mercenaries not liking the interference or attacks by the adventurers.

The remaining five of them lingered for only a little time, Harrian bowing out for sleep shortly after Imoen had left, Jaheira following moments after, leaving just stilted, uncomfortable silence between Sarevok, Anomen and Reynald, all of whom filled it by eating the remnants of the thick, spicy stew, only pausing when none of it was left.

"No river here," Anomen noted grimly as he peered at the cutlery and bowls that remained. "Washing up will be fun, indeed. Drinking water, I believe. It is just as well we gathered supplies in Amkethran."

"Stop whinging, priest. It will be dealt with," Sarevok grumbled, gathering bowls. "Go to sleep. You earn your keep by cooking often enough that the dark knight and I can clean up mess once in a while." His gaze flickered to the tent Anomen shared with Imoen a little pointedly, before returning to the cutlery.

Anomen hesitated, but only briefly, and he nodded his thanks to Sarevok and Reynald before turning to the tent, pulling the flap open and slipping inside quickly. Normality seemed to return once within the canvas, not surrounded by the strangeness of Harrian's personal plane, once the plane of Bhaal, and he could almost pretend to himself that they were camped in some silent, empty woodland.

"I was wondering if you were going to come at all," Imoen said sleepily from where she was buried under blankets in the very corner of the small tent. Boo was curled up inside one of her boots, squeaking only occasionally with slumber. "Thought you'd stay up talking about silly men things with Reynald."

"I fear we would both run out of topics far too quickly," Anomen replied fondly, giving her a small smile before he wriggled out of his jerkin and stripped just down to the undergarments he would sleep in. The pocket plane might have been odd, but it was safe, with no need to keep watch in.

Still, as he slipped under the blankets to join her, it was with a certain guarded air that she clearly noticed, for the moment he was settled she reached out to take his hand quickly, not moving closer but clearly establishing his presence. "I need to talk to you," she murmured, her expression one of slight difficulty.

"Oh. About today." Anomen sighed, closing his eyes. "I was being unreasonable. You have problems to deal with that I do not have any particular right to be informed of. I lend you support when you wish it, and will not try to draw from you tales you do not wish to tell."

"Don't get all selfless, Anomen. It doesn't suit you." There, finally, was a hint of a smile, her smile, and he shifted over to glance at her uncertainly. "You were right. Today. I haven't necessarily been fair to you. I haven't necessarily told you all that I could… should. I've been keeping you at the door. Since… since pretty much the first time I met you."

"I am aware of this," Anomen said gently, but he didn't resist when she moved forwards for him to hold her in his arms tightly. "Perhaps, what bothers me, is that you have talked of problems to those who are not me. And I do not just mean Harrian, or Sarevok, because it is true, they can understand more than I. But when you can discuss your fears with Jaheira, with Haer'Dalis, and not with me…"

She rested her forehead against his shoulder, taking a deep breath before speaking. "It's not because I don't value your support, or your judgement, as much as theirs that I don't tell you these things. It's because I value it more that I don't tell you."

Anomen frowned. "I don't understand."

Imoen sighed again. "I talk about my problems with Jaheira and Haer'Dalis and then it defines everything I talk to them about. I talk to Jaheira about bad dreams, and then suddenly every time we discuss anything, it comes back to my bad dreams. I talk to Haer'Dalis about a bloodlust in battle, and it always pops up in certain conversations. I've shared with them in the past, and then can't get away from it. Every single waking moment seems defined by my Bhaal taint, and what others know of my Bhaal taint, and how they treat me because of my Bhaal taint." She tilted her head up to look at him, and he was silent now, listening. "I haven't talked to you as much as others because you've been my refuge. With you, I can be just plain Imoen, not Imoen the Bhaalspawn. With you, I don't have to feel as if the world's going to come crashing down on me every moment."

Anomen shook his head, smiling very thinly before he shifted forwards to kiss her on the forehead. "Imoen, that's not because you don't tell me. I'm aware of you, and the Bhaalspawn taint within you. I'm aware that you have dreams, that you fight against the call of the blood. I don't know the details because you don't tell me the details, but I know there are struggles. I treat you as I treat you for _you_, not for what you tell me."

There was a thin silence after this as Imoen just lay there in his arms and thought for a long moment. "I've killed you, killed you all, hundreds of times in my dreams," she said at last, not looking up at him. "And I've had the urge to do it dozens of times when I'm awake. Mostly in a battle, granted, mostly when I kill an enemy and then turn to find you or Jaheira or someone standing next to me, nearer than the enemy. I just think about how easy it would be to cut you down, and sometimes… sometimes how it would be more satisfying to do it precisely because you're not nameless faces of foes."

She shifted a little, finally looking up at him. "And… yeah, another reason I haven't told you. I care what you think of me more than I care what the others think of me. You matter more than they do. I haven't… I didn't… didn't want you to know about how I'd just sometimes fantasise the best way of killing you all."

"It makes me think no less of you," Anomen said firmly. "My love for you goes to who you are, beyond the taint. It goes to how you have believed in me when no others have. When you can chase away dark times with just a smile, and a well-placed words. Are those features which are brought on by the blood of a God of Murder? I do not think so. You are yourself, Imoen, before you are a Bhaalspawn, before this fight. Do not lose sight of that – and that is all I ask of you."

She gave him another smile, this one softer than her usual room-dazzling grin, and he felt himself sink into more peace in this moment. "I'll do my best. And, right now, there's just one thing I'd ask of you."

"Anything, my lady."

She raised a hand to his face, stroking his cheek and his beard softly, her expression a thoughtful one. "Just kiss me. And pretend we don't have to march off to another war tomorrow."

When his lips touched hers, it was light and sensitive yet utterly intoxicating, and he fought to keep his own control to stop himself from seizing her in his passion there and then. "That would be two things, my lady," he commented at last, under his breath as he finally pulled back slowly.

"Then I suppose I owe you one?" Imoen shifted closer, kissing him more intently this time, one hand slipping under his shirt for fingers to run lightly across his bare stomach. "I'll have to pay you back for that, then…"

"I'm sure we can… come to an arrangement… that reaches mutual… satisfaction…" The interruptions to his speech came from more, quick kisses that compensated for limited time with firm intensity. Then he gave up on words, and just lost himself to her, to her lips and her touch and the sheer radiance that was Imoen, that he could not remember being without and did not wish to fathom losing.

Afterwards, as they lay in a tangle of blankets and limbs, and she rested with his arms wrapped around her and his face nuzzled into her hair, she told him more. More of what the taint did to her, mostly of her fears in regards to it than anything actually concrete it had caused. Of how it had caused her to react in Hell when she thought him dead, and more of the nightmares. Even some of her time in the care of Irenicus spilled out, though she just let him hold her a little closer and diverted the topic away whenever she approached it. And he, both out of a desire to further the spirit of sharing, and partly so she didn't clam up through excessive focus upon her, told her some stories of his past, of his father and his brutality, of struggles within the Order, all of which seemed minor compared to what she had suffered yet nevertheless received by her with the same quiet supportiveness he had extended to her.

Finally, Imoen twisted to face him, greedily stealing another light kiss, and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. "One thing you're not going to get away with," she started, slowly, clearly gathering thoughts, though there was an impish smile on her face which he knew suggested something big might be coming. "You're not going to get away with thinking I didn't notice what you said."

"What did I say?" Despite being in the spotlight, he felt his own grin coming on.

She leaned forwards again for another gentle yet lingering kiss. "About loving me for who I am? It's a new one, for sure…"

He felt automatic hesitation rise within him… and then dissipate, just as quickly. "And there I thought I had been subtler about it."

"Nothing gets by me." They rubbed noses briefly, and Anomen reached up to brush some of her hair from her eyes as she sighed slightly. "I do love you, too, Anomen. I just hope we get through this… through all of this… enough to work all that out without people trying to kill us constantly."

"We've been too far to not get any further," Anomen insisted, and kissed her again, shutting off any logical arguments which could fight that assertion, happy to lose himself in her and the moment once again. Despite the morbid topics of conversation, the deep emotions at hand he had hardly been aware he could find within him, he had never felt more complete than he did that night, under a pile of blankets in a shoddy tent in the middle of some distant corner of the planes.


	38. Chapter XXXVIII: Unwrapping

**Chapter XXXVIII: Unwrapping**

"Mountains," Reynald cursed, "are not my favourite landscape." Especially, he considered silently, with the Red Dragon Scales weighing him down distinctively, though he was dimly grateful to not be as heavily laden as the fully armoured Sarevok and Anomen, both of whom were lagging behind the party as they struggled uphill. If he hadn't been so focused on keeping his own footing, making sure he wasn't about to be dragged over backwards by his pack, and keenly aware that the climb was still continuing, he would have found the grim solidarity the two had settled into rather amusing.

As it was, he just kept his attention on the so-called path before him.

"All of nature has its ways of trying the outsider," Jaheira said, though he found her druidic spiel to be a little less focused than it usually was. "Some more harsh than others. But at least we are not so high that the temperature has dropped significantly and the air has grown thinner."

"Trust me, Jaheira, the temperature dropping is quite a merciful development when we compare it to the alternative of the desert." Still, Reynald reached down for his skin full of fresh water, refilled at the last river an hour back, and gave his parched mouth some much-needed moisture.

There was a pause as he just managed to walk and drink at the same time, then he glanced forwards at where Imoen and Harrian strode ahead of the group, both lightly armoured, carrying lighter packs, and a good deal less bothered by their surroundings than even the more seasoned travellers in the party. "They do not seem to be perturbed by the journey."

"I suppose it may be a pay-off of blood, though I do not understand why," Jaheira commented, her eyes down-turned. "They have other notes of perturbation without needing to be pestered by rocks or sand."

Reynald kicked one of the aforementioned rocks off the path, and watched it bounce down the slope of the mountainous hills they climbed. Their path was a winding one, gently weaving around their current hill that rumour and Balthazar insisted Abazigal's tower lay at the top of, but four days of hard journeying were beginning to get to him. "And we do not have our own perturbations?" he asked, a little petulantly.

"We do. But none of dead gods of murder." Jaheira shifted her pack and leaned heavily on the quarterstaff she, for once, was using. Her scimitars were still strapped to her back, but she had insisted as they started this journey that little would help her as much as a sturdy wooden staff.

"I have a perturbation of a living god of duty who is not best pleased with me," Reynald countered wryly, groaning a little as they clambered over a fallen rock that came to his waist. "And you have a perturbation that would be a child of a dead god of murder who is currently going through… stressful times. Pretending that we are all happy and devoid of trouble as they struggle on is not the way forward."

"No?" Jaheira leapt lightly over the rock with a good deal less effort than Reynald had employed, with his heavier pack load and armour. They both wore only medium armour, but her elven chain was a good deal lighter than the dragon scales he wore. "Because he needs to know of how I worry over what is nothing as he fights his own fights." The sarcasm was almost palpable.

"You think it will not motivate him to succeed if he knows how his struggle affects those around him?" Reynald wondered out loud.

"It may. Or it may prompt him to disappear within himself again if he knows that it bothers us, as he attempts to try and relieve us of a burden of concern that cannot be lightened," Jaheira said, her expression serious once again.

Reynald sighed. "Did the Bhaalspawn of the prophecies have to be so… obtuse?"

Jaheira did smile thinly at this, shaking her head. "You look at Harrian… how old did you think he was, when you first met him?"

Reynald shrugged as best he could without making shoulder muscles complain at the extra strain against the pack on his back. "My age, perhaps. Maybe more."

"He is over five years your junior, Reynald. And until two years ago, he lived a sheltered life in a sheltered library. Imoen seems younger than him because she has been less affected by the taint; they are comparable in age. He has been forced to grow up very quickly." Jaheira's gaze was fixed on Harrian's back as she spoke, and Reynald looked forward to see him now jostling lightly and joking with Imoen, looking more relaxed than he had for several days.

"He is not in the slightest the same as when I met him. When I met him, he was an abrasive, annoying youth." Jaheira sighed. "In two years, he has become a man. But you think that he matures in all ways in a mere two years? In the ways of battle, in the ways of loss, in the ways of death, he is a man, but in so many others he is still a boy."

"And reacts to hardship as a boy still might; hiding away." Reynald sighed.

"And then I have to be the guardian again, a role I no longer needed to take on shortly after the death of Khalid." Jaheira snorted faintly. "_He _was _my _guardian in those times. It is hard to know what role to play at any given moment."

Reynald hesitated briefly. "It is never good to hide problems. You fear him hiding his troubles from you – and how do you think he feels when you hide your troubles from him?" he pointed out, one eyebrow raised.

"I…" Jaheira paused, frowning. "I honestly did not consider it from that perspective," she admitted after a moment's contemplation. "I suppose… I have assumed that he is oblivious to the world around him. Though I do not mean that as a criticism. I mean that he has so much shouldered that my own problems would not be on the priority list."

Reynald gave a tight smile. "And now, you see, the two of you are as bad as each other, trying to protect each other from troubles which you should face together. What drove him to the violent stabbing of that mercenary, how that makes _you _feel… we are all in this together, even if our Bhaalspawn do claim that it is 'not our problem'. Because it is." He shrugged, the ache of his shoulders having numbed a little.

Jaheira sighed. "And you, Reynald? You say nothing of your worries of this quest, and yet I know you are not here solely for your own redemption or an abstract hunt for a 'greater good'. What have your silent observations left you with that worry you?"

"Blood, as always," Reynald said with forced nonchalance. "Although I may not comprehend the great depths of Bhaal's voice, I have heard the whispers of murder in my ear, and acted upon them. I have caused pain and devastation as nothing more than an angry knight. It does worry me what those two… what any powerful Bhaalspawn… may wage upon the land should they submit." Reynald glanced down, frowning. "And I… and I shall not let that happen."

"None of us will," Jaheira mumbled. "Though it is hard to tell what we can do to support them in resisting."

"Support, or outright stop. Physically, if necessary." Reynald's expression twisted into a scowl. "Though I pray it does not come to that." He finally glanced up to meet Jaheira' eyes, not wishing to say what his intentions were should all of the hells break loose.

"If necessary." Jaheira tore her gaze away, fixing it back on the shapes of Harrian and Imoen ahead. "Do you think they know? How we feel, how far we shall go to save them from Bhaal, or from themselves?"

"Ideally not." Reynald grimaced, his voice dropping. "The notion of plotting to kill, if truly necessary, good friends for their own good is not something I have ever wished to plan in detail. But telling your target your intentions is never a good start."

Jaheira looked uncomfortable, though there was a set to her jaw that was resolute. "Do you know what we should expect from Abazigal?"

Reynald nodded at the change of topic, and could not argue with the desire to avoid discussing the potential murder of close friends, whatever the reason. Though the soldier in him insisted that they should have a plan of action, he and Anomen and Jaheira – somehow, it never crossed his mind to include Sarevok – for what they might do should the worst happen. It just made his stomach plummet to consider the potential unreliability of Anomen and Jaheira, even in the face of the very worst possible consequences.

He thought he had left murder behind him.

"Hold up!"

They all glanced ahead to see Harrian, who had just reached a somewhat higher spot than the rest of them, pause in his steps, his gaze fixed on something that none of them could see until they picked up the pace and moved to stand alongside him.

"Does that look at all like a wizard's tower to anyone else?" Harrian waved a hand at the tall stone structure on a rocky outcropping ahead as they all reached him, his tone nonchalant yet with an undercurrent of concern.

"Wizards. Damn them," Sarevok cursed, winning a sideways glance from Imoen that he didn't quite return.

"We took down Irenicus, I think we can take down some magical Bhaalspawn," Imoen said with confidence. "Then again, I might just want to have a few scrolls handy, in case this gets at all difficult."

"And a wand or two. Actually, give me a wand…" Harrian glanced over at her.

"Last time I gave you a wand of lightning was back in Baldur's Gate. The Cloakwood mines to be precise," Imoen reminded him lightly.

"And, as I recall, it went off when you were standing in a corridor," Jaheira recalled dryly.

"It took out four guards," Harrian said, shrugging.

"It also destroyed your armour, your clothes, and left your hair standing on end for hours." Imoen chuckled, despite the circumstances. "I never laughed so much in a fight than I did back then…"

"Hey, I'm nowhere near as incompetent anymore. I just activated it a little early before. But it might be handy to have a magical attack on hand from a direction this Abazigal fellow won't be expecting." Harrian was, by now, tossing one of his throwing daggers from hand to hand. Reynald winced every time he caught one by the blade but, as he recalled, normal blades had been shown to have little affect on him since their little jaunt to the Hells.

"Perhaps this bickering is pointless," Reynald said dryly. "Abazigal is rumoured to hold copies of the Prophecies of Alaundo. Considering the fact that we cannot return to Candlekeep to read these, it might be certainly worth investigating as we are here. Perhaps we may find a clue or two as to… what is happening."

"I studied the prophecies in-depth, but all of what I read I applied to myself," Sarevok said, his expression a thoughtful one. "If I could re-read any, with this greater knowledge and a less… biased perspective, I may be able to provide us with some insight into the future. A warning, perhaps."

"I thought the prophecies were meant to be carved in stone?" Harrian looked rather unhappy. "Even if we know what's to come, we can't stop it."

Sarevok smiled a feral smile. "Knowing the future is half the battle. Since my untimely fate, I refuse to believe in a future carved in stone."

"You think we can just saunter in to a wizard's tower and read the prophecies, even if we don't face him until we're ready? He'll have someone around," Imoen interrupted, frowning with a faint concern.

Anomen and Jaheira exchanged glances. "Perhaps we should prepare some suitable spells of our own," the druid said. "If nothing else, I find it unlikely that there is a Bhaalspawn mage on his own in a tower without any lackeys."

There was a pause, a sudden stillness in the air, and they all glanced about briefly, urgently. Then, from the top of the tower, as they all watched, a large shape suddenly emerged and shot into the sky, great wings unwrapping and flapping briefly.

The silence continued was they watched the shape take flight, circle the tower swiftly, and then return into the top of the tower from where it had emerged, disappearing from sight.

Finally, it was Sarevok who eventually broke the silence. "Do you find it so unlikely that there is a Bhaalspawn _dragon_ on his own in a tower without any lackeys?"


	39. Chapter XXXIX: Unleashed

**Chapter XXXIX: Unleashed**

"Are you sure we shouldn't knock?" Imoen asked tentatively as Harrian gingerly pushed open the great door of Abazigal's tower to allow them inside. The tower, it seemed, was hollow – no signs of rooms, just a rising circle of stone reaching towards the sky, though with great 'windows' that could easily take a dragon's size and allow rapid return and flight from the tower. Down here, at the bottom, they just stood in a great, circular arena, and it was only the stairs leading down that they could see in the centre of the room that suggested there was anything more to this tower than a simple lair of stone.

"Knock? Ask the dragon within if we may enter so we can kill him?" Harrian scoffed, his voice oddly tight. "Though I do not expect the element of surprise. No… he knows we're coming. And he's here, waiting for us."

Anomen suppressed a shiver. "Are you sure? There is no sign of him. Perhaps he left, out of our sight, before we arrived?" He cast his eyes about the tower anxiously, searching for just a suggestion of draconic presence.

"I see nothing," Jaheira agreed, stepping forward to stand alongside Harrian, who wore an expression of intense concentration. Abazigal would not be the first dragon they had fought – the armours of both Harrian and Reynald were testament to that – but a Bhaalspawn dragon was a new challenge to them, one that she would readily admit made her nervous. "Is he even here?"

"He's here," Harrian said, his brow furrowed. "I can… he's here."

"I feel it too," Imoen agreed, joining them as they walked towards the centre, towards those stairs. "He's here. Watching."

Jaheira had her scimitar in her hand, eyes still turned upwards. "I do not wish to be taken by surprise by a dragon today. _Where _here?"

Harrian chuckled humourlessly. "Oh, he's going to want to play. Mock us." The Bhaalspawn looked up also, examining the bare stone walls that stretched upwards, finally culminating in a small circle of light at the top of the tower.

"I don't like this. I can feel his eyes on us," Imoen said, looking a good deal more shaken by her awareness than Harrian did by his. "Where in the hells is he?"

Harrian glanced up, and took a deep breath. "Oi! _Abazigal_!" he shouted suddenly, making the others jump as his voice echoed about the inside of the tower, bouncing around to amplify the call tenfold. "We're here! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

"Harrian!" Jaheira hissed instinctively, outwardly reproachful, inwardly concerned. This was not normal activity or a regular habit from him, and under the circumstances – especially with this weird sense of Abazigal's presence, which Imoen also shared – was beginning to leave her increasingly perturbed.

In hindsight, snapping at him was probably not the best way to deal with it. It wasn't the time, it wasn't the place, and the way his eyes flashed with irritation at the tone of her voice, she realised she should have probably trusted this weird sense to at least be right about one thing – Bhaalspawn.

"Jaheira, for the love of Tymora, will you just, for _once_, trust me and stop treating me like a petty child!" Harrian snapped, glaring at her with an irritation she had never seen from him directed at her. It almost prompted her to take a step back.

Almost. That was one of the two possible reactions. The other was her own streak of natural stubbornness which was shrieking at her that something was completely, seriously wrong. And that she didn't take kindly to him snapping at her when she was right.

Her retaliation wasn't as extreme as it might have been had they not been standing in the middle of a dragon's lair, but that was only a comparative term. "Perhaps, once you stop acting like it. Shouting for a dragon to come out is not necessarily the best idea." She managed to keep her voice level, and faintly pacifying, but there was her own irritation present.

Harrian's eyes flashed again and, this time, she realised that they were _actually _flashing, the golden hue that still left her more disconcerted than his old, dark eyes had been brightening distinctively. "Stop it! Stop telling me what to do!" he snapped, taking a step forward.

"Now is _not _the time," Reynald tried, but was interrupted by Harrian's continuation of the tirade.

"All of you! Don't you know what the hells is going on? This is the Bhaalspawn prophecy! It's not the random adventurers' prophecy! This is about me! My fate! You're not here because you _have _to be, you're here because I tolerate your company, so do _not _tell me what to do and what not to do!"

"Harrian…" Imoen looked more daunted than inclined to correct him for his statement of his autonomy. "You've gone all… bright."

Jaheira had no idea what she meant – he looked exactly the same to her, just more irate, but it was clear that it was not quite Harrian yelling at her right then. She took a step forward. "Harrian… it's like the dusk is coming sooner each day. Shouting at us now, stabbing that mercenary, turning to the Slayer before Yaga-Shura… do you know what's happening to you?"

"Yes. I feel…" Harrian's voice trailed off, and he seemed to stare right through her for a moment. "Don't try and 'protect' me from something that you don't understand, never could, and don't stand a chance of facing. Because it's bigger than me, bigger than you… bigger than any of us."

"Harrian, you have that voice whispering in your ear." Sarevok's expression was dark as he took a step forward. "Thinking that, perhaps, our deaths might taste quite delicious to you?" Imoen, who had been growing increasingly pale, looked as if she might be about to pass out. Jaheira's focus was more on Harrian right then, but Anomen was by her side in a flash, though she didn't seem to notice him with her eyes still fixed on her angry brother.

"I… delicious…" Harrian's voice trailed off, and he blinked, looking uncertain. "My… my head hurts."

"Let us leave. We can return later," Reynald said stiffly, his expression taut. "Now is… _not _the time for this."

Whether 'this' was the argument or the potentially impending fight was uncertain, but Harrian stepped back, drawing the Equaliser and eyeing them all. "No. We're not leaving now. Not like this. You don't understand. You never could."

Jaheira felt, rather than saw, Anomen's hand going down to the Flail of the Ages down by his belt, but before she could react – she didn't know if she was about to stop him or join him, and likely wouldn't until she truly acted – Harrian had moved.

But he didn't swing at them as she had feared in her darkest dreams. The sword moved through the air, but then he turned around, looking up, and hurled the Equaliser at one of the great entrances to the tower exactly as a huge, silvery-blue shape shot through the entranceway.

There was nothing but flashes of light for a moment lasting no longer than the blink of an eye, then the draconic form of Abazigal plummeted to the floor – controlled, rather than in a death-fall – with the Equaliser driven into his chest up to the hilt.

"You!" The dragon's voice was booming, but obviously pained. "You dare come here?"

"Abazigal." Harrian, now looking completely under control, gave the other Bhaalspawn a polite nod as he alighted gently, one claw reaching up to pull the Equaliser out with no small effort and toss it across the arena. "So glad you could join us."

"I often do tend to deal with intruders." The dragon looked down its snout at him, seemingly quite bored. "So. You are the Ward of Gorion. Most interesting. I have been expecting you to arrive at some point… you're not what I expected."

"You expected me to be taller, I know, I know." Harrian's body language was as if the recent near-explosion had not even happened. "Everyone does."

"Actually, I thought you would be smaller. I heard the tales of a sneaky, roguish individual – the stories behind the wondrous legends that paint you as seven feet tall, with eyes like fire and hair to match and all of that claptrap. You're a much more physical individual than I had been led to believe." Abazigal sounded contemplative. "Now… you are here to kill me, no?"

"Pretty much." Harrian shrugged.

"So lacking in… style. But seeing as I am faintly hungry, and you have slain two of my allies, I am not sure we have much of a choice. A good throw before, by the way. That should sting for several weeks, I don't doubt." Abazigal gave a faint nod of grudging respect.

"Actually," Harrian replied. "I don't expect it to last more than, perhaps, a few minutes."

"Confident of you. Then again, you were confident enough to stride into a dragon's lair. Is that foolishness, though, I wonder?" Abazigal looked at him evaluatingly.

"We have fought dragons before." This time it was Anomen who piped up, looking a good deal more confident about himself as he stood in Harrian's shadow, a development Jaheira would never have expected to arise. "And Bhaalspawn. And won."

"Well, actually, you, Lord Delryn, have fought no Bhaalspawn save in a practice drill. You and Sir Reynald here were leading the cavalry charge as Yaga-Shura fell, and none save Harrian himself fought Illasera. So I am unlike other dragons… and you think you can face me?" Abazigal would have raised an eyebrow imperiously had he not been quite so draconic. "Anyhow, where was I? Ah yes. Lunch?"

"That's rather unfair, don't you think?" Harrian returned lightly.

"Perhaps, but do you know how often it is that food comes wandering into my lair quite so willingly? Pleasant to talk to you, Ward of Gorion. We must discuss matters much later, in the afterlife. As you will discover… only a dragon has the power necessary to be worthy of Bhaal's blood. Goodbye."

Then Abazigal reared up on his hind legs, flapping his wings and sending the group scattered across to various edges of the arena, spread out and all rather battered in various ways. Then the great dragon whirled around to where Harrian had been knocked in a sprawled heap to one side of the circular arena, and advanced rapidly.

Harrian was on his feet by the time Abazigal reached him, however, and leapt out of the way of a great clawed foot that slammed down where he had been sprawled across the paved ground moments before. He rewarded the dragon with a swing of the Daystar, though the thick scales of Abazigal's skin meant that his blade only bit into the skin a matter of inches before Harrian was forced to step back, again sidestepping a vicious sideways swipe at his head.

Fortunately, by then, the others had gathered themselves enough to act, and an arrow shot over Harrian's head to strike at Abazigal's neck, surely a gift from Imoen and the Gesen bow. But the arrow merely deflected lightly off the scales, crackling with energy on contact, and flew off to clatter to the floor harmlessly.

Abazigal let out a faint laugh. "Know thy foe, Child of Bhaal!" he declared, rearing up in preparation to stomp down on where Harrian still skittered before him. But his victorious chuckle was interrupted with a faint yelp, and Abazigal fell back faintly to reveal Sarevok, who had swung the Warblade into the dragon's thigh, rending scales and flesh.

"I know you're mortal, and can die like anything else." Harrian took advantage of the break to dash across the arena and pick the Equaliser back up.

"And we can discover this for ourselves, if you doubt it!" That was Reynald, ducking under a flap of Abazigal's wing to swing his sword at the dragon's flanks, with Jaheira close behind him, her scimitars ready to back the Fallen Paladin up.

"Perhaps you should wonder more about your own mortality, hirelings of a doomed Bhaalspawn!" Abazigal's tail whipped around to catch Sarevok and knock the great warrior off his feet, and then back around again to send Reynald flying back across the arena to land in a pile on the floor, Jaheira sidestepping the attack and dodging only by inches.

The druid wasted no time with any quick replies, for Abazigal's attention was now back on Harrian, who was deflecting blows as best he could, claw on metal, but was unlikely to last particularly long going one-on-one against a dragon. Jaheira's hands weaved through the air, mumbling incantations under her breath, and finally magical energy swirled to life, taking form and moving forth to strike Abazigal.

The crackling of energy was similar to that which had taken place upon Imoen's attempted attack with her bow; the force simply seemed to wash over the dragon, and Harrian, distracted in that moment as he waited for a magical affect that never came, failed to dodge Abazigal's next blow. Claws raked across his chest, knocking him to the ground and sending him skidding across the stones, already bleeding profusely.

"You are powerless to hurt me! You think you can bring down me, one of the most ancient and powerful of dragons, with your petty blades and parlour magic?" Abazigal laughed again, stomping towards Harrian.

The thief's swords had flown out of his hands upon impact, and all energy seemed to have seeped out of him with the blow. He lay flat on his back, gasping for breath, feeling the agony in his chest that was making all thought seemingly impossible – though the awareness of the dragon marching towards him stopped him from giving into the unconsciousness that demanded his attention. So his hands still fumbled with a pouch at his belt, searching for a healing potion; the injury, he knew, was not such that a little magic could deal with it, but in between then and healing the pain was intense.

"I know you'll die like anything else if we cut you enough," Harrian managed to choke, pulling out a healing potion with shaking hands – and then dropping it as his grip failed to be strong enough. It landed just next to him, only inches from his hand and his body, but even that seemed too far away.

"Or if we throw a little something at you." Harrian looked around to see Imoen, her bow now stored back over her shoulder, weaving her hands and beginning to summon magical energy even as Anomen, standing beside her, finished his own incantations and waved his hand at Abazigal, an enchantment soaring across the arena and hit the dragon with little more than a shimmer.

"What? You…" Abazigal stumbled a little, though this seemed to be more from his injuries already sustained and the surprise than anything Anomen had thrown at him. Then he paused, and managed a draconic sneer. "You do not learn! Your magic does not hurt me!"

"That was not _meant _to hurt you," Anomen said, his own pomposity clear in his voice. "Simply… strip you of your protection."

And then Imoen finished chanting, the magic swirling between her hands for one long moment as she raised an eyebrow at the dragon, her smile slight and amused. "Say goodnight."

Then the magic flew across the circle of stone to strike Abazigal in the chest.

The dragon let out a great cry of pain and surprise, reeling for a long moment. "What… have you…" Pain finally registered in the deep, draconic voice as the words trailed off faintly, and Abazigal staggered for another few moments, clearly suffering from some sort of damage being wreaked within him before he moved to fall.

As poor luck would have it, his huge, scaly form seemed doomed to land upon the still-prone Harrian lying beside him.

It was as if time slowed down as Harrian watched Abazigal totter before him, then slowly begin to tumble in his direction, a great bulk that would certainly crush him without effort – and there he was, too injured and stunned to leap out of the way, as he would have been able to do under ordinary circumstances.

Then the light streaming in through the window-passageways of the tower disappeared, and Harrian was quite sure the end had come – a rather embarrassing end, to be flattened by the dragon just slain.

But it was not to be, for the moment Abazigal had begun to totter, Jaheira had abandoned her scimitars and snatched up the Daystar, lunging in front of Harrian's prone form, her straight blade held before her, pointing up at the falling dragon in a seemingly suicidal move.

It was then that good fortune struck – if her blade had cut through scales, flesh and bone to hit anything other than Abazigal's heart, the dragon would have been dying for several more long, crushing moments.

Yet the Daystar cut through him and pierced his heart, finishing off the dying dragon, and releasing him to the fate of all slain Bhaalspawn as his corporeal form dissipated before it could hit the ground, showering both druid and rogue in the ash of their slain foe.

A long silence greeted the victory, broken only by some of the groans of Sarevok and Reynald as they picked themselves up off the floor, and the heavy breathing of all at the sight before them.

Then Imoen let out a brief whoop, bouncing on her feet briefly and turning to hug Anomen with victorious delight. "That worked! That was brilliant!"

Jaheira turned around to face Harrian, who was looking up at her quizzically, not seeming all that much the worse for wear, despite his injury. The Bhaalspawn gave her a cocky sideways grin, then glanced down at himself, shifting up to rest on his elbows slightly. "I do believe I'm covered in dead dragon," he stated wryly, then picked up the healing potion he had dropped, uncorking it neatly.

"That was mental," he said, and raised the bottle briefly to her, smirking slightly before he downed it. "Cheers!"

Then, as always, darkness fell.


	40. Chapter XL: Future Echoes

**Chapter XL: Future Echoes**

Harrian looked around wildly at the darkness that had suddenly faded about him, even as he had picked himself up from the ground in Abazigal's lair. Although the surroundings of pure black were familiar to him, it was still highly disconcerting..

"What…?" Harrian didn't have a chance to finish his question of irritation and faint confusion before the familiar voice of the Solar echoed about the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him.

"Hello, god-child."

"You. Again. Now what?" Harrian sounded more resigned than irritated, though he did not relish the thought of yet more grand stories and tales the Solar might decide to tell him upon this occasion. "Why does this keep happening?"

"Time is racing ever onwards," the Solar said grimly, "and the Prophecies are approaching sooner. There are matters that need to be understood if there is to be any hope for a future not bathed in shadows." The Solar became visible, dimly, through the gloom as the darkness faded faintly to display the surroundings of the pocket plane.

"I hope there is some point to this," Harrian sighed. "Abazigal's dead. There are only two more of the Five left… one of whom I expect I shall find soon enough, but I don't even know who the other one _is_. I could do without your distractions."

The Solar nodded neutrally. "There is a purpose to my presence, always. Do you truly believe that beings with godly power simply _are_? That they have no beginning, or end? One grows into one's power, god-child; it is rarely thrust into one's hands without asking."

"It has been for me so far." Harrian forced himself to be a little more reasonable, but the point had to be made.

"And as your power grows, the universe strives to prepare you for it, so you will be ready for what may land on your shoulders. Choices will have to be made." The Solar began to pace, in almost a mockery of Harrian's own irritated habit. "Be unprepared and you will have an eternity to regret."

"You have explained all of this before," Harrian pointed out.

"And yet you persist in asking me the same question repeatedly. My purpose here has been explained. I shall not repeat myself again." The Solar gave Harrian a look that made it quite clear to him he shouldn't push the issue.

"This time we are not concerned with your past, god-child. Now we will look at your present. The prophecy proceeds towards its climax, as I am sure you are well aware. Your place in this prophecy is what is in question, perhaps."

Harrian scowled a little. "Everyone keeps insisting I am 'important'. But how? Am I just helping Bhaal return by killing off the rest of the spawn, evil though they might be?"

The Solar gave a vague approximation of a shrug. "The answers here are not obvious. This question will be answered, this once, by yourself." A glance shifted to over the Bhaalspawn's shoulder pointedly.

"By myself?" Harrian turned around with confusion, brow furrowed, and then came to a halt as he saw what stood before him. "Oh, bloody hell."

Those words were uttered at exactly the same time by the form that stood before him – an exact duplicate of himself, looking faintly surprised and yet rather resigned, the feelings Harrian himself was beginning to go through whenever the Solar dragged him down for these 'talks' of theirs.

"What's going on now?" Harrian's doppelganger turned to the Solar, looking irritated. "I thought I was free of you for a while? Your guidance over and done with? Because I'm not in the mood for another of your tricks."

The Solar looked unimpressed. "It has been some time since you have undergone one of my 'tricks'. No, this, for once, is not to do with your situation." It gestured to the original Harrian, who was, by now, deeply confused. "You are here to tell your past self of the Prophecy, and your place in it."

"You know, I'd rather avoid as much of this prophetic mess as possible," the original Harrian insisted. "Especially if it might involve the resurrection of Bhaal and me possibly going crazy. I had a little crazy moment just this afternoon, and…"

"Gods, I used to ramble. Shut up, please." His doppelganger glared slightly as he spoke and interrupted. There was a brief moment, and the future Harrian's expression softened slightly. "Fine, I do still ramble. But… the prophecy. All of that fun. I do remember hearing myself saying these exact same words… you slew Abazigal today, correct?"

"Well, Imoen and Jaheira did," Harrian corrected slowly.

"And you yelled at them all moments before." The doppelganger grimaced. "Watch that temper. Remember that your friends all make sense. Especially Jaheira." He sighed. "Well. The Prophecy. You _are_ the centre of the prophecy – well, a part of the centre." Harrian's double began to pace slowly, irritably. "Murder's all around you. It touches all of those close to you – should you hate them, love them, help them, you will bring murder to them. That is the fate of _all _Bhaalspawn."

Harrian's jaw clenched. "This much I know. And the Prophecy itself? The future?"

"I cannot tell you too much. A lot… you must learn yourself." The doppelganger looked wistful. "The Prophecy talks of what the Bhaalspawn in general shall do – lay waste to the land, sow chaos across Faerûn. However, you have killed several of those the Prophecy speaks of as destroyers of Toril, those who would bring this devastation."

"So I'm here to stop the Prophecy?" Harrian looked confused.

"Not quite." His double smiled ruefully. "You're going to bring death to many. That's a given. People will die. People close to you… people in that army of yours… people are going to die. You do have the power to stop this destruction. If you choose to."

Harrian frowned. "Why would I choose to continue the destruction?"

"There are degrees of _choice_, Harrian." His future self sighed. "If you fight Bhaal with all of your might… if you battle him every step of the way… then he will not return, and the lands will be saved. If you fall to Bhaal, then he shall return, and lay waste to the lands. The prophecy warns of what happens if you fail. It is not written in stone."

"Why me? Why do I matter so much? Why doesn't he return because Yaga-Shura fell, or Abazigal? Or why wouldn't he fall if Imoen fell?" Harrian was still feeling rather lost in this whole matter.

"Everyone has a part to play." His doppelganger shook his head. "The Five, Sarevok, Imoen, Asrael, all of them… they have a part to play. _This _is your part – for the focus of the taint within you, and the upbringing at the hands of Gorion. You are one of the most powerful of the Bhaalspawn, and yet you fight your taint. This was not something Bhaal had planned."

Harrian grimaced. "I don't want to be Bhaal's tool. I don't want to be the man who destroys the land, like the Prophecy says I might be. I intend to fight this."

"So did I. So did I…" His doppelganger's voice trailed off faintly.

"Did it work?"

The Solar looked quickly across at the double, its expression one of distinct warning and concern. "Corias…"

The double smiled ruefully. "There's no happily ever after, Harrian. That's the stuff of fairy tales. It doesn't mean the ending's bad, but it's never… easy."

Harrian sighed. "I knew you wouldn't give me a straight answer." He pondered this for a moment. "I don't suppose you have one solid piece of advice you can give me which won't unduly affect my fate?"

The doppelganger considered this for a moment, then his expression twisted to a nostalgic one. "I'll tell you what I was told. And listen up good, because it's completely bloody useless – but it's what I was told, so it's safe to tell you: Watch your back."

Harrian rolled his eyes. "Thanks. Useful."

"I know. I'm all heart." The doppelganger turned to the Solar, and grinned cockily. "Can I get back? I'm a very busy chap, you know… things to do, people to see. The whole shebang."

The Solar gave a deep nod. "We shall talk again later, Corias. Goodbye." It waved a hand, and Harrian's double faded into nothingness, leaving, for the moment, just the two of them in the centre of Bhaal's domain.

"You have been counselled by your own self," the Solar told him. "You are now aware of your place in these events, and why you are here. Not every soul gets such an opportunity." It looked over at him thoughtfully. "Then there is but one more question before you may return to your path. When you return to the waking world, you will continue to speed towards your purpose… stopping the prophecy from coming true. My question… why will you do this?"

"I…" Harrian blinked, and frowned. "I suppose a lot of it is because it's what I've been doing since I left Candlekeep – fighting Bhaal. But on the other hand, I've seen what the Five and other Bhaalspawn are going to do to the realms if they're not stopped, and I've seen that I'm the only one who's stepping up to do anything and can actually help." He shook his head. "I can't sit around and do nothing as people die. Besides, I never felt I had much of a choice – I'm a Bhaalspawn. They're going to come after me anyway."

The Solar nodded. "There is another trial ahead of you," it told him, waving a hand for the crackling energy around the third doorway in the great arena of the plane to fade, clearing the way. "You shall not need your blade, as you did before. I would suggest you deal with this challenge yourself. It is not of them."

Harrian blinked for a moment as the Solar disappeared, then looked over at the gateway it had cleared for him. Last time he had walked through he had fought old foes and dark counterparts. The Solar surely would not have told him that it was unsafe if there were dangers ahead – trickery would not be needed by this divine being if he was wanted dead.

And he really didn't want to expose the others to something that they didn't need to know about. Harrian was annoyed by the Solar's intervention only in that he was annoyed that he was embroiled in a matter that required this level of outside interference. He still trusted the Solar to help him.

So he stepped through the doorway alone, and was not surprised as the energy crackled behind him to seal the passage, leaving him in a smaller, circular area that was the same as where he had faced the last two trials.

Then, yet again, he saw _himself _fade into existence before him. But unlike moments before, the doppelganger before him was clean-shaven, fresh-faced, youthful and with a bright smile he had never been able to assume in recent years without a wry twist marring it. His double before had been physically identical to himself, but with a greater weight about him that suggested the more years on his shoulders.

Was this the opposite of the advisor he had just talked to?

"It's quite amazing you recognise me," the new doppelganger said, grinning at him brightly. "I thought you'd forgotten me."

Harrian frowned. "I, uh… I don't forget myself."

"No?" His double chuckled. "There's a philosophical tickler the monks would have had fun with. But no, you set me aside a _long _time ago. I'm the part of you that grew up in Candlekeep, played with Imoen, learnt how to pick locks and pockets… I'm the part of you that you left behind in a circle of stones along the great road on a rainy night when a man with glowing eyes attacked you." He sighed. "I'm your innocence, Harrian."

Harrian raised an eyebrow. "If we wish to talk about technicalities, I think I lost you to that daughter of one of Candlekeep's pilgrims…"

"So you are being difficult. _This_ is what I speak of." His innocence sighed. "You have lost the bright eyes and hopeful heart. But it need not be forever – your struggle against the taint of our father has eroded me, damaged me, as have your experiences in the world, but I _can _return."

Harrian eyed him. "And if so… would I be stronger in battling Bhaal? Able to fend him off? Imoen is a more innocent soul than I, she has had an easier time of fighting him off… comparatively… But how do I get you back?"

"This plane is an extension of your soul, your being. You have a need to deal with your dwindling innocence, and so I am brought forth."

"What if I really, _really _need a tankard of ale?"

His innocence ignored him. "What you decide here, in this place, with your control, has power. If you chose to restore me, it would be so."

"It's as simple as that?" Harrian frowned.

His innocence nodded. "You would be almost born anew… fresh, and bright, as if none of what has happened since Candlekeep had taken place. The horrors of your past would be gone."

"What, everything?" He looked sceptical.

"All of the pain, all of the suffering – gone. Leaving you free of these pains." His innocence's voice became increasingly earnest.

"And all of my experiences, memories? All of the good, along with the bad?"

"Everything. For a fresh start."

"And then… then who stops the Five?" Harrian folded his arms across his chest.

"It won't be your problem anymore!" his innocence insisted, stepping forwards.

Harrian rolled his eyes, looking up. "Look, lad, I don't like what I'm going through. I hate this fighting, this constant fighting, this constant whisper of Bhaal in my ear. But I keep on going because I know, if I do get through it, the future's bright. And it's a future I want to face with my mind, my experiences, my soul… intact. Not wiped clean."

The voice of his innocence turned piteous. "It would save you from yourself, Harrian. You do not wish to fall to Bhaal – reclaim me, and I shall be your shield against his voice."

"It didn't work before." Harrian shook his head, stepping back. "No. This is madness. Going back would not take me forwards – obviously. And you know what? I was an annoying little brat back in Candlekeep. I was an arrogant idiot, a foolish upstart. I don't _like _who I used to be."

"And you like who you are now?" His innocence sounded dubious.

"When I know who I am… well… yes." Harrian managed a wry, lopsided grin. "No. Screw this deal. I am who I am – and I've got a world to save, thank you very much."


	41. Chapter XLI: The Eight

**Chapter XLI: The Eight**

"So this is what the library of a paranoid and powerful Bhaalspawn dragon looks like," Reynald commented, sheathing his sword as the group wandered down the stairs to enter the large, round, underground part of Abazigal's tower to find row upon row of shelves stuffed full of dusty volumes. Compared to the odd appearance of the rest of the tower, this was disconcertingly comforting.

"Actually, this is what the library of a paranoid and powerful Bhaalspawn _half_-dragon looks like," Harrian corrected as he stepped forwards, eyeing the books with an appraising air. Upon completion of the third 'task', he had used the portal, as before, to return to Abazigal's tower and, as it had been after the battle with Yaga-Shura, had found that no more time than a single moment had passed in the eyes of the others. Whatever the Solar was doing with the tests, the education, the power behind it could not be questioned.

"Half-dragon?" Sarevok asked, pulling off gauntlets and beginning to browse the shelves, keen eyes considering and discarding titles rapidly as he searched for anything of interest or value. "How do you know?"

"He was a blue dragon. And yet he still had 'arms' in his draconic form; that's not normal. It would be the influence of his human blood." Harrian sounded distant as he, took, stared at the books – though far less rapidly than Sarevok, for he lingered over each title, considering it before moving to the next.

"And how did you know that?" Sarevok pressed, glancing back at him.

"I read it somewhere. And, as you seem to have forgotten, Balthazar told us he was a half-dragon," Harrian said nonchalantly, then paused in his search. "Oh… the complete history of Amkethran in five volumes…" He moved forward, almost unthinkingly, and pulled the first book off the shelf, gently opening it up.

Imoen shook her head as she stepped past him, patting him on the shoulder. "Harrian, step away from the history books. We don't need to know about the growth of the monastery and how it affected trade in the desert."

"Aw, come on, Im. It's got plenty on religious wars in the desert. I'm sure I'll find that useful… learn from past mistakes. Work out how to run an army in the desert… a few tactics, that sort of thing," Harrian's voice became a little plaintive as he looked over at her.

Imoen gave him a sterner look. "Harrian. We're here to find the copy of the Prophecy Abazigal had and any notes on it. Focus."

"His research… actually sounds useful," Anomen said hesitantly, not moving from the foot of the stairs as he regarded the many rows of books. "We can make the most of the knowledge, rather than limit ourselves to the Prophecy."

Jaheira gave a faint snort as she approached the desk to their left. There was precious little on its surface, save a few papers she rifled through unenthusiastically and a vase with a dead rose in it. "No. He'll be there all afternoon and will regale us briefly with snippets of information he finds interesting yet are ultimately irrelevant. Do _you _want to know about disease in the desert one hundred years ago?"

"Not particularly." Anomen also reached to pull his gauntlets off. "I fear I will be of little use here unless someone will care waiting until I retrieve my reading spectacles from my pack…"

"No. You'll be useful." Harrian walked up to him and passed him four books, stacked up, hanging onto the original one he had pulled off the shelf. "Come on. I'm sure we can take some of these with us. Have fun looking through a dead man's predictions, people…"

Jaheira raised her head and fixed Harrian with a stern look as he made as if to walk off. The rogue drooped a little, passing the final volume over to Anomen, then went to join Jaheira at the desk. "You really need me?" he asked her, a little weakly.

"The Prophecy is _about _you," Sarevok interjected from a few shelves over, inspecting and then setting back a volume after a brief inspection. "Though this Abazigal does seem to have had many, many useless books, they did say he was a student of the Prophecy. Why do you not want to know more about it?"

Harrian grimaced. "No books are useless," was all he said weakly, moving to the shelf next to Abazigal's desk, a shelf with many volumes that had clearly been written by the half-dragon himself. "Let's just keep looking."

Reynald peered through drawers of the desk as Jaheira continued to shuffle through the papers on the surface. "For a scholar on the Prophecies, he _has _examined a distinct amount of… useless information." He glanced up, brandishing a sheet of parchment. "Do you think the development of irrigation and its affect on agriculture in southern Tethyr will help our situation?" His expression was honest and open.

"You're getting better at sarcasm, my friend," Harrian mumbled, pulling out a fresh handwritten book, and flicking it open. Then he paused, and swore quietly. "I think I've found an actual copy itself. Though it looks as if Abazigal might have copied this one out… it has his own comments in there."

Sarevok was at his side in a moment, peering over his shoulder. "If he had any knowledge at all, his insights may be valuable.

Harrian merely nodded mutely, then narrowed his eyes and read through a passage on a random page. "…'_and though some babes may be slain, many shall flee, or salvation shall come to them, and Bhaal's plan shall commence unravelling'_… I think we might want something later than that."

Sarevok reached down, and plucked the book out of his hands calmly. "I have studied these Prophecies… the wording, the phrases. Allow me." He walked over to the desk and sat down, laying the book open on it.

There was a long silence as they all gathered about Sarevok, the great warrior's eyes simply scanning the paper for many moments. "Much of this we already know," he stated at last. "There are also pieces here I did not have during my bid for godhood. Some of this was not even kept in Candlekeep. Abazigal must have searched long and wide for this information."

"Anything specific?" Harrian asked irritably, beginning to pace behind the desk.

Sarevok paused. "My downfall is mentioned. This, I had read before… I simply thought it spoke more of the death of one of the spawn I slew myself. Hindsight is such a useful tool." His voice sounded a little bitter as he turned back a page, and his eyes narrowed. "This… this is new."

"What is?" Imoen stepped up.

Sarevok took a deep breath. "It details some of the original plan. '_The spawn of the Lord of Murder shall number in the hundreds, and shall be as of man, and elf, and all other natural form that Bhaal chooses. And some shall live their lives in peace; others, with a lust for blood that may be sated in war or crime, but they shall share no more than a drop of blood with Bhaal._' The weaklings," Sarevok concluded.

"Those hardly affected. The less powerful Bhaalspawn – all of whom are dead, now, it seems." Harrian grimaced. "Read on. What about us, those of us who feel it more?"

"'_Some shall feel the sway more than others, yet those strong of heart and noble in purpose may yet fight off the dark blood. And then, above all the others, there are the Eight.'_" Sarevok paused, his lips moving silently for a moment as he stared off into space.

"Eight?" Anomen asked quietly. "What are they?"

"'_Vessels of Murder itself, the Eight shall be Bhaal's own chosen, the champions of his return, and the strongest of his spawn. It shall be they who hunt down their weaker brethren, slay them, send their taint to the Lord of Murder. Yet, if one of them should fall, their taint shall remain within the Eight, fuelling them, strengthening them and the hold of Murder until they lose themselves to their father's task'_." Sarevok looked up, meeting the gaze of a shocked Harrian levelly. "I don't suppose you've been hearing Bhaal whisper louder with each of the Five you've slain?"

Harrian stared back for a long moment, before taking a step forward and snatching up the vase from the desk. "_Damn it_!" he snapped, whirling around to hurl it at the nearest wall, right next to where Anomen was standing, and the priest jumped a little despite himself as it shattered into scores of pieces.

"So that's it?" Harrian asked, sounding both angry and lost as he resumed pacing. "I kill the Five until all of _their _taint pools in me so I don't stand a chance?"

"And each one we kill, the others become more powerful," Reynald pointed out logically, though not without a little embarrassment at bringing such a tactical consideration into Harrian's blunt emotion.

"You might as well tie me up right now, leave me in shackles constantly, because if I'm supposed to keep my mind as Bhaal starts yelling _louder _in my head as we wipe out the Five, you can all sod off." Harrian paused, turning his back on them and resting his hand against the bookshelf, taking a few deep breaths for a few moments. "I thought it was just… stress."

Then he turned around, his expression calm, and gave Sarevok a nod. "I don't suppose it says who these Eight are?"

Sarevok shrugged. "The Five. You. Perhaps myself, as I was stronger than most of the spawn we have encountered." He glanced over at Imoen, raising an eyebrow in a contemplative manner as everyone else had the same obvious thought as he.

Imoen took a step back. "Don't look at me. Bhaal's here, but he's not any louder than he used to be. It might be Balthazar. Or Asrael, for all we know."

Sarevok gave her a long look, then nodded and shrugged. "Or a Bhaalspawn somewhere else entirely who may be either dead or not involved."

"If they were alive, they'd be involved." Harrian scowled. "Asrael or Balthazar, then. Or perhaps it was Gromnir; I thought my skull would split in two when you slew him. Regardless, there are still three of us left, for certain. And it's just going to get worse…"

Sarevok scowled as he continued to search through the book, until he came to a certain page. "This part here… is Abazigal's notes." He groaned. "And it is in a draconic tongue I cannot read."

Reynald took a step forwards, pulling the book away from Sarevok. "One moment, please," he asked, surprisingly politely considering the others would have been shouting at him to start translating had they known of his skill.

As Reynald read, Harrian resumed his pacing, muttering irritably under his breath. Then, finally, the fallen paladin looked up. "Interesting," he said at last. "This details the fall of the Eight. To begin with, each uses a gender-neutral pronoun, so identifying which is which by that process shall be… difficult. I shall translate and simply say 'he' for ease of comprehension."

He set the book down, and leaned over the table, still reading it. As he spoke, his voice faltered occasionally, searching for the right word, but he still explained it all.

"'_One shall fall from pride, losing his head. One shall fall from madness, murder claiming his allies. One shall fall from denial of nature, selection of the fittest. One shall fall from an ambush, and an underestimated foe. One shall fall from devotion, slain by the guard. One shall fall from treachery, a stab in the back from an ally. One shall fall with a lost weapon in his hand. And the last shall choose his own fate; he may be the end of Bhaal or, should he fail, filled with his power, but unquestioned authority shall be his._'" Sarevok closed the book solemnly.

Harrian was still pacing. "Well, we can work out a few options here. I do believe the last one is myself, from what… from what the Solar has told me. The rest is process of elimination." He paused, turning to look at the others. "Ideas?"

"Perhaps those which are definitely to come in the future. For example, I do not think anyone has died from treachery yet, unless it is this mystery Eighth Bhaalspawn. We may be aided in the future against Sendai or the last member of the Five – or perhaps we should keep a close eye on Asrael," Reynald offered, folding his arms across his chest.

"Do you think 'an underestimated foe' was Yaga-Shura? He thought he was invulnerable, so he underestimated us," Imoen said tentatively.

Harrian grinned. "No, Yaga-Shura's the first one. His pride was in his invulnerability… and he literally lost his head." Then he looked over at Sarevok, who seemed similarly thoughtful. "I think the second one's you. If you don't mind me saying that you went completely batshit back in Baldur's Gate."

Sarevok scowled, but didn't argue. "It was not my finest hour."

Anomen frowned. "What about the denial of nature?"

"Illasera didn't deny her nature. Nor did Sarevok, or Yaga-Shura, or Abazigal here. Or Gromnir, if he's a possibility. That one's open. Might also be Asrael." Harrian sighed. "I think Illasera was the 'lost weapon'. I… the… uh, the fight was interesting." He shifted his feet.

"That leaves war, still, and devotion. Where does Abazigal fit into this?" Imoen asked, looking faintly confused.

Oddly enough, Sarevok smiled. It was a wry, faintly scathing and slightly sarcastic smile, but it was a smile nevertheless as he turned in his chair back to the book. "He was slain by the guard," the big warrior said simply, casting a brief glance at Jaheira, then going back to his reading.


	42. Chapter XLII: Rocky Ground

**Chapter XLII: Rocky Ground**

The next time Jaheira actually had a chance to talk to Harrian was a day later, as they were emerging from the mountains and setting up camp for the night by a rocky outcrop that could keep them protected from the threatening chilly desert wind. It felt ridiculous to have not had the chance to find him in a quiet moment all the way out of Abazigal's tower and halfway down the mountainside, but since the bird had arrived with the message from Asrael telling them the army had set up camp at the oasis and that Sendai's forces were on their way, Harrian had been pushing them to move as fast as they could. As they walked, he had been distant, up ahead, not really making time for even idle chatter. At nights, when they had finally camped, they had all been too tired to do anything than collapse into deep, dreamless sleep.

Not so tonight. As they had emerged from the mountains, they had decided to camp there instead of pushing through the desert and stopping for the night in the middle of the sand. The next day they could push directly across to the army before nightfall, and then they would be again in the thick of chaos.

And Harrian, after collecting a bowl of Anomen and Imoen's infamous indistinctive stew, had ambled off to sit by himself some way away, shunning their company. Jaheira had tolerated this initially, allowing him some space, reasoning to himself that their recent discoveries had been trying and that he might need some time with his thoughts. She'd decided to leave him alone.

This had lasted approximately as long as the stew had, which was why, three minutes later, she was ignoring the glances of the other for as her stew bowl fell to the floor and she stood up, stepping away from the circle of tents gathered around the party and the fire in the middle, and heading back towards the rockier part of the terrain, back towards the mountainside.

The bowl of stew Harrian had taken with him just lay on a rock, untouched and probably cold by now. That wasn't what caught Jaheira's attention – it was his obviously distressed state that did, for the Bhaalspawn was pacing back and forth, visibly sweating in the cold desert air. He was also muttering under his breath rapidly, murmuring words she couldn't make out but the sentiment of which was fairly clear.

"Harrian?"

He whirled around to face her at last, looking stunned at the sudden intrusion and also a little guilty, as if he'd been caught in the middle of something he shouldn't have been doing. "Weren't you… eating dinner?"

"I have done so." Jaheira stepped over, nodding to his abandoned bowl. "Perhaps you should also. It should be a long march tomorrow."

Harrian paused, brushing back some dark hair that was matted down against his forehead by sweat. "I… I'm not hungry." He shrugged. "But you're right. It's a long day tomorrow. I suppose I should just go and get some sleep."

He moved as if to walk past her, head back to the tents, but she'd finally had enough of being brushed off. He paused as she reached out to grab him by the arm, her expression firm. "Sleep can wait for a few moments more. Talk to me."

And then, before her piercing expression, the emotionless mask he'd slipped on when she had come across him crumbled. He had never before looked so much like the scared boy she'd met in the Friendly Arm Inn, and even back then honest fear had been swept under the carpet in favour of a forced youthful confidence.

"About what?" But his words were dry, and he pulled away only to resume pacing, scrubbing his face with his hands. "About how I've been losing control more and more as every day's gone by? And now I know it's not just my imagination but a real development, and something that's going to get worse as we succeed?"

He paused, looking over at her, and for the first time she could look directly at his golden eyes and feel assured that there was a man behind them, as she'd known there was a man behind his natural dark brown eyes that had been there until their journey to Hell.

"We still have two more members of the Five to kill. I don't think I'm even quite feeling the affects of Abazigal's death, and you saw what happened that day in his lair… I'd like to say it was like I was a passive observer, watching myself do something and being unable to control it, but that's not true." Harrian resumed his pacing briefly. "It just all made perfect sense… perfect sense to yell at you, perfect sense to, for a moment, just want to get rid of you all and kill Abazigal and then… then…" He stopped, and collapsed onto one of the rocks, burying his head in his hands.

Jaheira stepped forwards, moving to kneel before him so they were on an even level, reaching out to take one of his hands, forcing him to look at her. "And then what? Then you stopped, you attacked Abazigal, you regained control. You have done _nothing _so far in the name of Bhaal."

"Except for stab that mercenary in the hand." Harrian grimaced, not meeting her eyes. "That was just… at first, he went for his sword, and I went to stop him. And yes, I did want to teach him a lesson. But the next thing I knew, I'd stabbed him in the hand and there was blood and this feeling of elation at the sheer, brutal violence of the act…" He shook his head. "It was intoxicating. I'd have killed him if I hadn't regained control."

"But you _did_ regain control. Don't forget that." Jaheira's voice was steady, and she squeezed his hand lightly. "I cannot imagine what this struggle is like, but I do understand that it is growing harder. Regardless, you have not fallen to it. You will _not _fall."

Harrian raised an eyebrow at her, finally meeting her gaze. "How do you know that?"

"Because I have faith in you." She spoke softly, gently stroking his hand with her thumb. "And because you saw the prophecy. It said that you would be the one of the Eight to survive."

"It also said that if I failed, I'd be bringing Bhaal back and serving as his right-hand man. It might be moderately preferable to death, but I don't fear for my life – I fear for what will happen if I _do _fail." Harrian sighed. "You once told me that there was no possible way I could turn into a monster. I'm beginning to wonder if you were wrong."

"I said your heart was too pure for Bhaal, too pure for you to be a monster, and I meant it." Jaheira's voice was firm. "You seem to be under the impression that you are fighting this battle alone. There, you're wrong."

"Jaheira…" He looked her in the eye and took her other hand. "I don't doubt that you will do all you can, but I don't know how much that's going to be. I don't know how much you _can _help me."

"No, you have just been in danger of shutting down, closing yourself away again. And I have been letting you, thinking you needed space. _Talk _to me, Harrian. And if that may unburden your soul, then I shall listen. Even if it helps only a very little…" Jaheira frowned. "Let me in."

"You've been feeling… helpless, haven't you." Harrian sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm really not doing this out of any misguided desire to protect you. I just hardly know how to articulate what I'm feeling… if I say the words, it might just make these feelings – or, rather, these suggestions of feelings – come true, stop them from just being vague sentiments I can't wrap my head around. If I articulate this vague impression in my head, it becomes solid…"

There was a brief pause as he bowed his head, taking deep breaths and obviously thinking. "Fights are becoming harder. Every single blow brings a smile, every single kill brings a surge of elation. I never feel more alive than I do when I'm killing someone.

"And that's just going to get worse? The more I win physically, beat the enemies, the closer I myself come to being one of them? Everyone thought I was crazy when I wanted to keep a distance from them because I didn't trust myself to not hurt you all. But when I think about what happened at Abazigal's tower, that doesn't seem like such a crazy notion after all.

"I remember the look in your eyes as I shouted at you. I remember drawing my sword on you. I remember Anomen ready to pull out the Flail of Ages. I remember you going for your scimitar… only you didn't know if you were going to stop me from attacking or stop Anomen from striking me. But I was _there _in that moment, and I knew then, and know now, that you would have stopped me, struck me, if it had been necessary." Harrian pulled away, rubbing his forehead. "I remember it all, and in that moment I wanted to do nothing more than slaughter you all, and would have tried if I hadn't sensed Abazigal arriving." He looked up at her. "So tell me… how is this going to be alright?"

This time, she couldn't answer.

Harrian still knew how to respond to his own question, though, reaching for her hand again. "Then I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise that, if I lose control, if I fall to Bhaal, I want you to kill me. I want all of you to make sure that I won't bring more evil to this world if I lose control."

Jaheira looked horrified. "Harrian, you know I can't agree to that. Because it's _not _going to happen."

Harrian shook his head, his hold on her hand tight. "The prophecy might say that I'll live, even if I live to bring forth Bhaal, but I'm not going to take that as a given. If you believe so utterly it won't happen, you won't have a problem making that promise. Can't you promise to just kill some Bhaal-owned shell of myself? Because if I lose myself to Bhaal entirely, I don't think it's going to be _me _that you'll be killing."

"That I do believe." Jaheira closed her eyes. "But this is not going to come to pass. I will not _let _it." Her voice was firm, and there could be no doubt that she would fight until her last breath to make it so. "I don't care if I have to fight a dead God, and neither will any of the others. I won't make that promise to you, Harrian – but I do promise that, if you do fall, I'll have already died trying to stop it from happening."

"This isn't a fight that can be won by swords…" Harrian scowled. "You help by… by being you. But if, just _if _it comes to pass…"

"I won't promise you that," she cut him off again, holding his hand firmly. "Because I refuse to let it happen. And the others will agree with me." Despite her conversation with Reynald before about this exact issue, now that she was facing Harrian she knew she could not make the promise he wanted, or go through with what she herself had considered a possible necessity.

"Anomen and Reynald have already sworn to kill Imoen and I if something goes wrong. They think I don't know." Harrian smiled thinly, humourlessly. "I don't think Imoen does. But then, she doesn't appear to be the last member of the Eight. She should do alright. She's stronger than me, I think."

"Stop talking as if you've lost. Because when you do that, you _have _lost." Jaheira shook her head. "This is not going to happen. Even if you think it might, it's not an inevitability by any stretch of the imagination. Think of a better future, think of what will happen when this is over, when the Five are defeated and Bhaal is thwarted."

Harrian looked faintly surprised. "I… I never let myself think of that," he mumbled, seeming genuinely confused at the notion. "I just… I couldn't think of anything but the present."

She raised a hand to the side of his face. "Think about it. That gives you something to fight Bhaal for." Jaheira leaned forwards slowly to kiss him softly. "As I hope this does."

Harrian closed his eyes, reaching out to hold her. "It does. It always does," he sighed, more relaxed in that moment than he had been for too long. "Anything after this just seems like… a dream, an impossible dream."

"It's only impossible if you make it impossible," Jaheira insisted, resting her forehead against his. "We can get through this. I refuse to let you fall by the wayside."

Harrian finally allowed himself a small, genuine smile. "With you so intent, how can I fail." He kissed her lightly. "I… I'll try to push on. I'm just…" There was another pause as he sighed. "Fine. I'm terrified. And I don't like it."

She silenced him briefly, her hand rising to his lips. "You don't need to be. This is difficult, I do understand that. But if you concede defeat now, then victory is impossible."

Harrian held her wrist lightly, kissing the palm of her hand. "Then I suppose you are the General to I, the foot soldier in this internal fight. And how can even Bhaal hope to defeat the mighty Jaheira?" He smiled slightly.

Jaheira returned the smile, content and confident as she lowered her hand. "Bhaal can't have you. You're _mine_," she stated lightly, before brushing her fingers through his hair briefly and pressing her lips against his firmly, conveying just as much through touch and emotion as had been stated through words.

It wasn't impossible. Not if they didn't let it be so.


	43. Chapter XLIII: Sneak Attack

**Chapter XLIII: Sneak Attack**

Jastian Asrael glared down at the maps littering the table before him in his tent. The chill of the desert at nights was surprising compared to how vicious the heat was in the day, and even though they had made camp at this apparent trade-centre of an oasis, he was not looking forward to taking the army through sandy lands for many more days. The only comfort in this forsaken situation was the fact that Sendai the drow had to be suffering more from the desert sunlight than he.

"Scouts have pinpointed the main body of her force coming in from the west. Their numbers are comparable to ours, fortuitously," Beran told him as he gestured to a spot on the map left of the mark that signified the position of their army. "It shall not be numbers that win this battle."

Asrael grimaced. "They say Sendai is a strong general." He glanced up at Beran, the foremost of his five lieutenants gathered in his tent. "But they said that of Yaga-Shura too, no? And he outnumbered us significantly." He smiled broadly, and was relieved to see the reassured grins of his officers in return.

"Have we had word from Lord Corias?" he asked at last, peering back down at the map. That was another challenge of desert warfare – the absence of much distinct terrain to give one side an advantage. With equal forces and equal footing, it would be down to the quality of the troops, their familiarity with fighting in a desert, and the quality of their leaders.

A daunting prospect indeed.

"A bird arrived early this evening," Beran said, nodding. "Abazigal is dead. He is on his way back here so Sendai can be dealt with."

Asrael straightened up, and tugged slightly on his leather jerkin. "And that, gentlemen, is how we're going to win this war. The Five are a shadow of their former selves, and it is all down to the Lord Corias. If he is at our side by the time we meet Sendai's forces in battle, I have no doubt that victory shall be the only available outcome."

He looked at them each. "Let us get some rest. Keep the men sharp, ensure they have food and adequate supplies. Make sure they are focused for the days to come. They will be long, and hard, and some of them will never leave this place." Asrael sighed. "Make sure they are ready to fight."

Then he wrapped his heavy cloak about his shoulders and headed towards the entranceway of the tent. But before he could quite step out, a figure shifted forwards from the doorway – his page, the boy Whatley.

"Need anything, sir?" Whatley asked, in that over-eager manner he so-often employed, looking up at Asrael with faintly hopeful eyes. The boy was enthusiastic, and helpful, but his constant helpfulness could sometimes get a little trying.

Still, Asrael smiled slightly, and shook his head. "Not tonight, lad. I'm just going for some fresh air," he told him, before ducking under the canvas and emerging in a sea of other, smaller tents and tiny campfires.

This oasis was a gift from the gods, for certain; they could replenish supplies and valuable drinking water without having to send caravans back, and could gather their strength. It was also the only oasis they could locate within a hundred miles – Sendai's troops would be cut off from any such boon and they would have to fight for the fresh water.

Asrael wound his way through the pinpricks of light of campfires, keeping his profile discreet as he stepped past various clusters of soldiers cooking, laughing, talking together, merry and optimistic of the days to come. They were ready, he knew – he could lead them to a victory. He would win this battle, for them, for the realms, and for Harrian Corias.

If, of course, their great leader returned. Asrael scowled a little as he continued to drift through the tents. Had the days been different, he would have joined Harrian on his journey, on his efforts. Standing by his side in one of the great battles would have been an honour of the highest level; helping him slay Abazigal the dragon would have been tremendous.

But that was not his place. His place was to stay behind with the army. It would be here that the fights that would define the fate of the realms would take place. He would have his place in the history books for helping to save the lands from the Bhaalspawn. All it took would be that he stayed behind, behind from the grand adventures, and stopped, as before, to watch the men around him die.

And to then feel exulted by their deaths, charged up, so much that it would work him into a frenzy on the field of battle that he could slay dozens of foes single-handedly. And those deaths would make the whisper of Bhaal in his ear even louder, and make him come a little closer to falling to the sway of his blood.

Jastian Asrael had been nothing more than a farm boy who had moved to Saradush and signed up as a guard for the sheer need of money. From there, his exceptional skills at killing, from his blood, and his own abilities at being a leader of men had catapulted him through the ranks. When he had finally landed himself with a commission in the army of Tethyr, he had made a great reputation for being a captain who was not afraid to make hard choices for the greater good.

Or he was a captain who could stomach death and who only hung on to his sanity by a shred strong enough to allow him to sacrifice a great number of lives for victory. He had always been known to be able to kick away defeat against the odds, because the worst kind of victory, the kind where so many were dead it was hardly a victory at all, was the kind he lusted for.

Not that every fight of his had ended with such a small victory. When he could focus, when he could remain calm and make decisions based upon circumstance rather than Bhaal's whisperings, he had enjoyed only the greatest success. Working for Gromnir had brought him into a more thuggishly martial life than he had enjoyed, and it had seen to his near-exile from Saradush.

It had been by fighting Bhaal, not by submitting, that he had lived thus far and enjoyed such success. And it would be by continuing the fight that he would save himself and the realms. Submission was death.

"The night is dark, my crow." A shadow by the nearest tent moved and out from the darkness came the bard Haer'Dalis, his expression the usual quizzical, vague and mysterious one he usually wore.

Asrael, to tell the truth, thought the bar to be mostly harmless, if a little disconcerting in manner and turn of phrase. But he sang a good song, told good tales, and he had been a long-time ally of Harrian's. As such, Asrael would not only tolerate his slightly odd company, he would welcome it.

"Must you call me 'crow', Haer'Dalis?" Asrael managed a faint smile as he looked over at the tiefling. "It is awfully… dire. I do think that I have something more about myself than sheer death. I fight here to provide life."

"Of course you do, my crow, of course." Haer'Dalis stepped out of the shadows and approached him. His cloak was new, Asrael noted – dark green and quite splendid. Underneath, the bard still wore the suit of elven chain he had collected during his travels with Harrian. "But death comes to us all, ultimately; you are one of its messengers."

Asrael's smile turned a little strained. "It is good to know there is such optimism. I hope you have been telling grander tales of victory and battle to my men."

Haer'Dalis looked a little affronted. "I would not dream of demoralising them, good captain! If they meet there end it is by their own means. This entire army, the coming battle, is such a centre of entropy and doom that more intervention would be… most unwelcome."

"Good. Sing your songs of Lord Corias, of victory. I need them in good spirits." Asrael went as if to step past him, but the bard sidestepped a little to intercept.

"My crow… I did not just pass you for idle pleasantries. I was hoping that we might be able to have a word – away from prying eyes and attentive ears." Haer'Dalis glanced about him, glancing at the nearby campfires and potentially curious soldiers.

"My tent is clear," Asrael said, serious at last.

Haer'Dalis shook his head. "Not secure enough. I would hope that we might be able to walk a little way into the oasis, consider matters there, amongst… greenery and hope and none of the darkness of this desert."

So Asrael followed him as the tiefling led him through the pinpricks of camp fires, past various groups of soldiers. The bard seemed to keep hard from sight, disappearing in the various shades of black of the night and the shadows of the tents, not by any obvious effort, but so naturally Asrael almost lost him a few times. The soldiers they passed would nod respectfully to Asrael, who would pause very briefly, on occasion, to exchange a few words, but none of them seemed to notice the stealthy bard their general followed.

Finally, though, they were a way away from the hubbub of the camp, and had made their way deeper into the oasis. Haer'Dalis led him to a spot by one of the deep bodies of water of the area, and turned to face him as he approached.

"These are dark times, my crow, but you do have a great position of strength from which to prepare for the coming battle." Haer'Dalis sounded grim as he began to pace a little. "I believe victory may be ours. And yet… I worry about you." He glanced over at Asrael, his voice still deadly serious.

Anyone who knew Haer'Dalis better might have been more perturbed by his serious manner, but Asrael's experience of the bard was limited. He shrugged. "I can deal with warfare, and I am well-protected. My life is not at risk."

Haer'Dalis shook his head. "No… maybe not. But from within? The Lord Bhaal whispering in your ear? I know Harrian well, my crow… I know of his struggle. You are not he, and yet you are one of the few Bhaalspawn to have survived this long. I fear for your control."

Asrael hesitated for only a fraction of a moment before snorting derisively. "Have I given you reason to worry about my self-control? Bhaal holds no sway over me." He gave an exaggerated shrug.

"No? I find that hard to believe, if you will forgive me, my crow." Haer'Dalis bowed his head a little. "But all suffer it. And you seem to have it so controlled that, I fear, the beast within might escape through sheer power." He glanced up. "You do know that your life is in danger – and not just through warfare."

"I know my chances of surviving the entire Bhaalspawn saga are limited." Asrael nodded stiffly. "It is something I have accepted." There was only the faintest of grimaces at this comment.

"You are willing to die for the future of the realms?" Haer'Dalis stepped forwards, his expression intense.

"I know I shall. I only intend to ensure that my death is meaningful." Asrael glanced away, his gaze settling on the ripples of the pool of water. There was something unnaturally beautiful about this place, and the fact that he would probably die not far from here in battle was not as sad as it could have been. There were worse places to meet his fate.

"Meaningful? Death is rarely meaningful. Death is the end, the ultimate fate, which we must all suffer and which comes to us all at last." Haer'Dalis' voice sounded mechanical, automatic, and only after he was done did his expression soften a little. He shook his head. "But you, my crow… I do have the feeling that you may break the mould. I have a suspicion that your death may indeed be much more important than that of others."

Asrael looked curious. "You do?" he asked.

He didn't notice when Haer'Dalis lifted his cloak to reveal a crossbow beneath. Or, rather, he noticed – but that discovery was quickly swept away from his considerations at the intense pain exploding in his chest the second after.

Asrael fell back, staggering and losing his footing and collapsing on the floor, facing the stars and even then only dimly aware of the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. He looked up as Haer'Dalis stepped closer, the bard's face cold, impassive, the crossbow disappearing beneath the cloak.

"You… suspect… you _bastard_…" But speaking was becoming harder now, the twinkling of the stars dimmer, and he couldn't utter another word before he lay his head back and succumbed to the growing darkness.

"Yes," Haer'Dalis said softly, as the wind blew the ashes of the Bhaalspawn's body from out of the cloak and armour that still rested on the ground. "I do."

It was only when he turned away that he noticed, in the undergrowth, the crouched, spying, terrified shape of Whatley.

And the bard smiled.


	44. Chapter XLIV: Head Count

**Chapter XLIV: Head Count**

"I don't understand," Harrian said, scowling as he looked up at the body that swung from the makeshift gallows that stood in the centre of the army camp. "I thought the boy worshipped Asrael. Why would he…?" His voice trailed off and he shook his head, looking away.

Sarevok shrugged. "Gold. Influence. Sendai probably bribed him. Loyalty can be bought, you know." This bored him. The loss of Asrael was a blow to the army indeed, but what was done was done, and for Harrian to sit and gawk at the body of the murderous page was simply a waste of time. For someone who had been dragged across the realms and was in severe danger of being driven mad by a God, Sarevok mused, their party leader could sometimes be irritatingly naïve.

"It doesn't make sense." Harrian blinked. "Sendai. Damn her." He began to pace, and all eyes of the large circle of army officers that surrounded the party and the gallows followed him. They were hanging onto his every word, Sarevok noted, and it was only a pity that their great Bhaalspawn leader seemed a little speechless.

"I fear that I was deeply concerned as well, my raven. To come across the still-crumbling ashes of the captain, the boy standing over him…" Haer'Dalis, who had been standing next to Harrian, gave a shrug as he finally tore his own gaze away from the swinging body of Whatley and looked over at the party. "I am just glad I managed to subdue the boy and bring him back here for a harsh justice."

"It just shows Sendai's closer and more active than we think," Reynald said. "I would also recommend we give you a guard, Harrian. If she could reach Asrael's page, there's no saying who could have been affected. I do not think it wise for you to be left unprotected."

"I can take care of myself. They'll have to remember to bring an enchanted blade if they want to slit my throat in the night," Harrian said confidently, but still with a distracted air as he continued to pace.

Jaheira shook her head. "No, he's right. You're to be guarded, at least until Sendai's dead. No risks to be taken." Harrian looked as if he might argue at this, but as he caught her gaze, he fell silent. Sarevok chuckled a little.

Beran, the rather dull-faced officer who would now, it seemed, be Asrael's replacement, stepped forwards. Sarevok had been pleased to note that, despite the rather ordinary appearance of the man there was a keen mind behind the low brow and deliberate manner most mistook for slowness. "The lady be right, general. I don't want to be seeing you alone around here. Not at any moment. You might be wanting your privacy, general, but this army needs you in one piece, and I know you recognise that's more important."

Sarevok again found himself repressing a smile. This was the typical manner of a solid lieutenant who knew how to order his superiors around. Indeed, Harrian seemed to relent under the insistence of Reynald, Jaheira _and _Beran, and paused in his pacing, sighing a little.

"Perhaps we should consider some plans for the next day, if Sendai's forces are as close as reported," Reynald continued, arms folded across his chest, eyeing the collection of officers they had, none of whom seemed to be doing anything but waiting for the instructions of their leader.

Harrian nodded at last, glancing over at Beran. "I suppose I _am _the damn general now. Great." Still, he straightened up and seemed to Sarevok's eyes to be shaking off the slight air of self-pity that had come upon him when they had reached the camp and a runner had told them of Asrael's grim demise. It was just as well, considering how he now had about a dozen men standing about him waiting for his instructions, and thousands more in the camp who would be moving on his word.

"I'm assuming there were plans in place. Beran, I'll obviously need you to talk me through what Jastian had planned, and we'll take a look at the situation." He nodded towards the tent next to the gallows that had been Asrael's command centre. The gallows left a grisly warning to any who could see them, and considering its location and height, most of the army had seen or at least spoken to someone who'd seen the body themselves. Murder didn't pay.

Well, not for the non-Bhaalspawn.

Harrian looked back at the others. "Anomen, you've served in the Orders campaigns before, which means you have more military experience than I. Reynald, I heard a lot about your reputation in the Tethyr campaigns, too. So I'm going to want you two to be with me in the planning." He glanced at the remainder of the party. "If you want to be here for the planning, feel free. I don't doubt I could use everyone's advice."

Jaheira shook her head. "I shall be collecting a few guards for protection duty. And making sure that their loyalty is… unquestioned." She smiled tightly. "I believe I shall wish to talk to Lieutenant Avaris about his infantrymen, then?"

The tall, broad-shouldered leader of the infantry gave her his own bright smile. "I'll direct you to one of my Sergeants who can probably find some of the meanest bastards in this army, perfect for your needs, your ladyship."

Imoen stretched a little. "I'll just see to the tents and such. Leave you all to your maps. Let Harrian see if any of that military history studying of his has paid off. We're going to need our camp in one piece. I'll make sure nobody's going to slip a snake into a boot."

"Or a spider," Harrian said firmly, pausing in the doorway of the tent as Anomen, Reynald and the army officers trooped inside. "Definitely not a spider. I don't care about the poison…"

"You just care about the spiders. Right." Imoen glanced over at Sarevok, her expression a little concerned. "You're going to help me?" It wasn't so much of a question as a verification – one made of nervousness but not quite fear, an uncertainty that yet held conviction. Sarevok wondered how truly deep this soul-bond of theirs went.

"You are becoming perceptive, sister," Sarevok said wryly as he looked down the smaller Imoen, the soldiers and party members now scattering, Jaheira resolutely heading off to probably bully some thugs into guarding Harrian. He pitied those thugs.

"Do you have to keep watching me the way you do?" Imoen answered instead, turning to face him fully. "I can feel your eyes on me, all the time. Even when you're not looking at me." She shifted uncomfortably, seeming a little irritable, though Sarevok could sense this was more of a façade. She shivered slightly as she looked up at the still-swinging body of Whatley. "Let's just go to our tents. That body's making me feel creeped out."

"It's making you feel hungry," Sarevok corrected before he could stop himself, following her as she stepped towards where their tents were being pitched by some overly helpful servants in the army. Being surrounded by lackeys like this was a good deal more disconcerting than it had once been to him. Once, it had been natural, their subservience to him to be expected. Now he just wanted them to leave him alone.

"Stop it." Imoen didn't look back, still walking on. "I know you've got a bit of me in your head, but I wish you didn't listen to it."

"I pay attention because nobody else can. Because Harrian can understand but has his own problems, and the priest tries but cannot conceive of the depth of Bhaal's instructions to you. Because everyone is so wrapped up in Harrian's destiny they do not consider yours. Or, if they do, they dismiss it as minor and irrelevant." Sarevok shrugged. "Odd, how your destiny might be irrelevant to even your friends."

"That's not true, and even _you _know that," Imoen said, pausing to turn and face him. "Harrian's just got the big thing surrounding him. The Prophecy you found said so. He gets to live happily ever after or bring Bhaal back – he's the big one of the Eight, the biggest Bhaalspawn of all. And you were once one of them, and you died like you were supposed to."

"At least the notion of Bhaal becoming stronger in your head is just a matter of the imaginations of both of us," Sarevok said simply. Too simply. "Otherwise you would be one of the Eight, doomed to die in a pre-prescribed manner. As it is, Asrael was betrayed, died, and showed himself to be the final member."

"So I'm just imagining Bhaal being louder and having more of a hold. That's not comforting." Imoen shook her head.

"At least it means that you are not doomed to die, as Sendai and the final member of the Five are. At least you do not have all of destiny resting on your shoulder. I once thought that would be desirable – and that killed me. Harrian shall have his struggle, and you and I may just emerge from this as Bhaalspawn who survived – more or less – free to die in a way _we _choose," Sarevok said urgently, stepping forwards.

"Not doomed to die?" Imoen laughed humourlessly. "What do you think happens to the Bhaalspawn who aren't part of the big Chosen lot? You think that they just shrug off the wars and emerge unscathed? If I didn't have Harrian to stand in front of me and look intimidating – from a Bhaalspawn perspective, I mean – I'd have been picked off long ago." She glanced away, frowning. "Don't lie to me, Sarevok. You know the Prophecies better than anyone alive. And you also know something you haven't told us."

Sarevok swallowed hard, for once lost for words as a blunt truth rose to the surface of his mind. For a reason he couldn't quite fathom, stating that truth seemed less enjoyable an idea than walking into the jaws of a dragon. "Does the portion of your soul that I hold tell you about the whisperings in my head it hears?"

"I don't know." Imoen met his gaze, looking determined. "Not as clearly as it seems to be to you. But there's something you haven't told us."

Sarevok paused, sighing, then reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment. "I thought it would help nobody to know this. Least of all you. Especially as I was convinced you were the final member of the Eight, with Bhaal as insistent as he has been since Abazigal's death."

"A figment of my imagination and my fear driving him on, probably." Imoen snatched the parchment from his hands, reading it quickly. The bustle of the army camp around them had rather faded to the background, nobody stepping near them, everyone with a job. A purpose. It was quite comforting to be in a surrounding that had such determination.

"Perhaps an affect like that of the deaths at Saradush. Not tied to you, but an echo. You are faring better than Harrian, so perhaps we should have realised that you were not likely to have the level of taint within you 'necessary' to be of the Eight," Sarevok said, keeping up a faint ramble as she read through the parchment. Odd. He was not one for unnecessary words.

Imoen finally pushed the parchment back into his hands, her expression stiff. "Well, see? I was doomed either way. Doomed to die in war, or from rejecting who I was, or from a backstabbing… but no. I'm just doomed to die as a faceless loss in the hordes of the 'normal' Bhaalspawn dying."

"Because none shall survive the war," Sarevok murmured, looking down. "_'For, by murder and by age and by accident, all Children save the Eight shall die deaths that are mere trembles in the thunder of the time of the Bhaalspawn.'_ And, as you are not of the Eight, that includes you." His expression was as emotionless as hers.

Imoen frowned, glancing away. "Don't take it hard, Sarevok. I appreciate you trying to avoid scaring me. But it's not like this isn't something I don't already know. Harrian gets the destiny. I get the death. Doesn't matter if I've got a bucket-load of Bhaal's taint in me and I'm all extra-special and get to act through his will and die in a special way… or if I'm just like the poor souls of Saradush. Death is death."

"It's not the end. It does not have to be an end," Sarevok said firmly, scowling.

Imoen glanced up at him, her expression surprisingly peaceful. "Maybe not. I know you won't tell the others… it'll just worry them. Confirm what they all already fear – especially Anomen. I don't want him in a fit about something he can't help." She shook her head. "You got a second chance, Sarevok, it doesn't mean we all do. I've always been prepared to die for Harrian, for this. I guess, sometime soon, it'll just be time for me to make good on that intention."


	45. Chapter XLV: Rivers of Blood

**Chapter XLV: Rivers of Blood**

"We should be making our move at noon tomorrow," Harrian said, pointing down at a spot on one of the maps resting before him on the great table in what had been Asrael's command tent. "The sun will be high, the temperature will be viciously hot."

Lieutenant Avaris of the infantry looked faintly confused. "There is no way in which we can fight at full efficiency in such a heat. Our men will be drained and tired."

Reynald nodded, picking up some parchment from the table. "Indeed. But these reports from our scouts tell us that perhaps a third of Sendai's army is made up of drow warriors. These shall fare even more poorly than the men on both sides shall, and it shall sincerely cripple their forces to see the dark elves battle at the hottest time of day."

"You shall all see to it that the men have enough water. The oasis must be held, or we'll be stuck out here in the middle of the desert cut off from any comfortable supplies, which could spell our death even if we kill Sendai and win the battle." Harrian tapped the symbol on the map of the oasis with his thumb, looking thoughtful.

"This is assuming Sendai will be in the battle itself, and not some rear-end General," Anomen pointed out.

Lieutenant Beran shook his head. "While Yaga-Shura was besieging Saradush, Sendai had her own skirmishes further south. The Fire Giant never lead from the front; the drow does. Reports suggest that the most likely place she will be found is on the field of battle, should the armies clash."

"That's why I intend to be with the cavalry, with Asrael gone." Harrian frowned, then glanced up at the military lieutenants. "On the right flank. The left shall fall to Reynald and Anomen here, with their greater experience."

"That, we can do. But true, directing the cavalry is a traditional position for any general who leads from the front," Anomen said, watching Harrian carefully. For a man who had claimed to know nothing of military matters, he had been surprisingly authoritative and confident when laying out their plans of action for the oncoming battle. When Anomen had asked quietly, Harrian had shrugged and said that reading a little military history was all he had to go on, he had been even more suspicious.

They said that Yaga-Shura and Sendai had abilities as generals that came from their Bhaal blood. Perhaps Harrian was given a similar boon… given, by Bhaal's power, whatever abilities he needed to wage as much death as possible. Especially if the Prophecy's mentions of how the essence of any of the Eight who were killed did not go back to Bhaal or the Abyss but simply seeped into the remaining survivors.

It certainly explained why Harrian had been so much more on the edge.

"It should take some effort, but I intend to see a cavalry unit that does not break through enemy lines and then charges off to pillage the supply wagons. I intend to see a unit that can break through enemy lines and still be ready for another charge from the rear, still be useful in a fight." Harrian looked over at Beran. "I will need to talk to whoever Asrael's number two in the cavalry division was."

Reynald looked over. "Disciplined knights could reach such a level. These are not knights. On occasions when I have fought with non-Order members in battle, I have seen even the greatest of leaders amongst our paladins unable to quite contain soldiers to that extent. To do it in a day will be a… challenge."

"I shall see it is done," Harrian said grimly. "Avaris, Beran, the two of you will be in the centre with the infantry. I want to see the pikemen at the front to deal with any mounted charges of theirs, though the regulars should be close behind for solid support once the main armies meet."

And so the planning session carried on this vein, much to Anomen's surprise. He could see Reynald was as confused as he by Harrian's sudden inspiration, though hid it better. Beran, Avaris and the other officers, on the other hand, all looked content and confident. Of course – they had always thought that Harrian was a wonderful general and leader, and this was just confirming their assumptions.

"You make it sound so easy, General," Beran said at last, smirking from where he stood over to one side of the tent. "And they say you were just some simple boy who grew up in a library."

"I am just a simple boy who grew up in a library. I also happen to have a huge portion of the fate of the realms standing on my shoulders. It prompts one to be a fast learner." Harrian smiled, but Anomen noticed something about the grin that had a feral tautness dimly reminiscent of his expression back in Abazigal's tower.

"Well, learnings we are grateful for. I was concerned of our own fate with Captain Asrael's death," Avaris said, nodding. "But it looks, indeed, as if you shall continue his work perhaps better than he could."

"And then everyone shall be able to see that it was one of their 'cursed' Bhaalspawn who saved the realms, not the great monarchs of Tethyr," Harrian said wryly. "They fear me, and they fear my army, and well they should."

Anomen frowned. "Of course they do. They see you as a threat on your own, due to misguided perceptions clouding their judgement and prompting them to see all Bhaalspawn as the same. They see you as no better than Yaga-Shura or Sendai – and they see that you are beating those Bhaalspawn. But once this is over and the army dissolved, they should see that you really _are _only interested in dealing with the realms."

"Hm. Yes." Harrian scratched the back of his head, his gaze flickering over to a map on the table that was of Tethyr, rather than their desert. "And then these lands go over to rulers who could not even protect them." He glanced up at them all. "They often say that someone not strong enough to hold a land will lose them."

"They're not losing them," Reynald said quickly.

"They would be if it weren't for me!" Harrian let out a quick bark of laughter. "They would have lost their lands to Yaga-Shura and Sendai! The Fire Giant wouldn't be dead, the drow wouldn't be diverting her attention in my direction if it weren't for me!"

"You always said you didn't _want _power," Anomen said, feeling his stomach beginning to sink as he realised what was happening and heard how pathetic his voice felt as he gave Harrian this reminder.

"Bear in mind, my friend, that this was before it was within my grasp. These are rulers who fail to protect their people, fail to keep them from harm. _I _have become their protector. It would be negligent of me to just walk away and abandon my duty as a protector, leave the people of these lands under the care of those who have proven to be unable to take care of them." Harrian grinned as he looked over at Anomen. His golden eyes flashed even brighter than usual.

Beran stepped forwards, nodding. "General Corias, you know that the army would be behind you if you did indeed decide to further your cause. We all look up to you more than the Queen. Yaga-Shura routed her armies; you bested him with half of the numbers she had held. Now, if you can defeat Sendai, who has even a greater army, all in the lands will see that it is _you_, not these pampered monarchs on bright thrones who truly watch out for them."

Harrian nodded, his expression sincere. "My thanks, Beran. Sendai will come first, but it is something to bear in mind." He sighed, shaking his head. "There is no reason why I _should _abandon the power I have, if I can use it to do more good than those who hold power currently do."

Anomen walked over, grabbing Harrian by the arm lightly. "My friend… perhaps you and I should have a word. I fear the heat is going to your head a little," he said tightly, not leaving any space for protest as, before any of the others could react, he frogmarched Harrian out of the tent and into the hot sun of the oasis.

"Anomen… what are you…"

"Just follow me." Anomen scowled deeply as he dragged an only barely-cooperating Harrian through the tents towards the deeper parts of the oasis, unaware that this was the same path Asrael had taken only a short time before with Haer'Dalis to escape the hubbub of the camp.

By the time they stopped, further into the oasis at a spot not too far from where Asrael had been murdered, Anomen finally released Harrian and turned to face him.

"What in the _Hells _is going on?" he demanded at last, caution thrown to the wind as he fixed his friend with a concerned, yet urgent glare.

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with _you_? All I…"

"Removing the monarchy of Tethyr? Calimshan? Maybe moving on to Amn, if you think they didn't do well enough against the onslaught of the Bhaalspawn? Since when did you become Harrian the Conqueror, trying to carve out a little empire for himself?" Anomen's words were harsh, as was his tone, but it fuelled more by fear than the anger he was expressing.

"Oh, Hells, I knew you wouldn't understand." Harrian waved a hand dismissively, beginning to pace. "Why are you so afraid of me? It'll be for the good of everyone. If I can defeat Sendai, if I finish off the Five, then I'm proving myself to be more powerful than almost anyone on _Toril_. And you're saying I should just walk away from this?"

"This isn't what you want, Harrian." Anomen took a step forward, his jaw set.

"How do you bloody well know what I want?" Harrian snapped back, pausing to face him. Even though Anomen had a good few inches of height over him, the rogue still had enough of a presence to leave the cleric feeling more inclined to back down than tower intimidatingly, as he would with anyone else of Harrian's height. "I have been run ragged for two years dealing with _Bhaal_, doing what _Bhaal _wants. I have seen the world, and I have made my plans, and all of them have fallen to dust under the eyes of a damn dead God!"

"Harrian, _this _is the plan of Bhaal! If you go and seize power, it'll cause yet more bloodshed, more deaths. That's not what you want. Being a ruler is _never _what you've wanted. Especially not at the expense of more deaths, more deaths which don't _need _to happen? What happened to the quiet life you talked about?" Anomen said, his own voice gaining urgency.

It was happening. What he'd dreamed of, the nightmares that he had become increasingly convinced were sent by Helm, were happening.

Was this the moment that he'd been brought back from death for? Saving Harrian from Bhaal at this very time?

"Maybe I had a taste of power and decided that it was for me." Harrian stepped away the face-off at last, scowling. "But maybe that dead God has a point, sometimes. You're terrified of me, Anomen. You all are; I see it in your eyes at every moment."

"Of course we are, Harrian," Anomen said, throwing his hands into the air. "We're terrified we're going to lose you to Bhaal, to madness. All other Bhaalspawn of your power have been driven to following the whims of the God of Murder; all we can do is _hope _that you won't fall too, and then take action like I'm taking to help you when you falter."

"No. You're not terrified of my blood. You're terrified of what I might achieve if I shrugged off the coddling of all of you. Bhaal tells me that you're holding me back, and because Bhaal lies, I don't listen to him," Harrian snapped, glaring back. "But there are times, like now, that I think he might be right. You're holding me back. You all have, you've always been doing it, stopping me from achieving my full power. Like you, right now, Anomen. Trying to stop me from considering this plan." He took a step forward to face Anomen again, and the glittering in his golden eyes was now harsh and sharp. "You're terrified of the idea that I won't need you any more. That I can go on, achieve power on my own, and there won't be a seat waiting for you at my right hand when it happens."

Anomen swallowed hard. "Harrian, whichever part of you that's still here that is _you_, you have to listen to me. I don't want to talk to this puppet of Bhaal that converses with me at this moment – I want to talk to _you_, to Harrian. Stop listening to a dead God and listen to _me_. I'm trying to _help _you…"

"You're planning to kill me." Harrian scowled. "Yes, I know of your plan. The plan of you, Jaheira, Reynald... to kill me if I should 'succumb'? Achieve my true potential, rather. Jaheira tried to soothe me, tried to lie to me, tried to make me believe she wouldn't do it, but I know her. She'd do it. Lie with me, slither to my side like a snake and then slip a knife in my back if she thought I might discard her. As I should discard _you_."

Anomen took a deep, desperate breath, stepping back. "Harrian, you have to _listen _to me…"

"So you can waste time until the others turn up and you can kill me together?" Harrian, too, took a step back – but this pace was to leave more room for the Equaliser to be drawn, glittering in the sunlight, from its scabbard. "You think I'll let this happen."

Anomen cursed quietly. "Don't do this, Harrian. You know I'm here to _help _you…"

"No. You're here to kill me. And a part of you has always wondered which of us, if a fight should occur, would win. Your martial training, my speed and instinct, your strength and armour?" Harrian gave a brief bow, a mockery of the etiquette of any duel. "You wondered if you could defeat a Child of Murder. Come, and be murdered."

The challenge, a repeat directly from the nightmares that had plagued Anomen's sleep, finally prompted action from him. By the time Harrian had lunged forwards, the Equaliser almost dazzling with the power reverberating within it, the Skullcrusher was in the priest's hand.

This had to be the moment that he had been destined for. His fate, his fight, away from the army, to save Harrian from Bhaal, from himself.

The Prophecies dictated that Harrian should survive this fight, the possible consequences of which were not comforting to Anomen. The notion of dying at the hand of his friend with work undone was not a fate he had hoped for.

So his only hope now was for divine intervention or for the Prophecies to be wrong.

Metal met metal, shrieking out for none but the two fighters to hear in this small clearing of the oasis, and then all thoughts of Anomen's fled from his mind as there was only battle. Only the fight.

Only murder.


	46. Chapter XLVI: Time of Troubles

**Chapter XLVI: Time of Troubles**

Although the Skullcrusher was not the most powerful weapon in Anomen's personal arsenal, it was easily the one most suited to a one-on-one fight like the one he had just found himself in. The Flail of Ages was suitable for large skirmishes, but in a conflict like this one, where he rather be in greater control, a mace was a far more preferable weapon.

Then again, he did remember why he preferred the bigger fights to duels like this one. Harrian was in his element in a situation like this, able to focus just on a single target and putting his greater speed and swordsmanship to use with potentially devastating effects.

Anomen would have preferred to take most of Harrian's blows upon his shield, but that was back in the tent in the middle of the army. As such, he was left to parry and inexpertly dodge any of the Bhaalspawn's attacks, and was most decidedly at a disadvantage.

He was even worse off if he considered the fact that he was doing his best to make sure that every attack he made would not be lethal if it made contact. Harrian had no such qualms, it seemed, from the weight and strength behind every blow that he managed to block; each was struck with life and death with it.

Anomen managed to deflect with his mace a downwards swing from Harrian, prompting the thief's sword to instead just flick harmlessly off his plate, the true advantage he had over his leather-wearing opponent. There was a quick retaliation with a heavy sideswipe that should have contacted painfully with Harrian's ribs, but the Bhaalspawn stepped back with an unbelievable speed that nobody should have been able to achieve, and his leathers were simply brushed with the head of the mace.

This had thrown Anomen off-balance a little; in a position which, by all laws of human physical limits, he should not have ended up. As such it was just as well he could twist to the side slightly so Harrian's next blow also bounced harmlessly off his shoulder-plate, and Anomen had the chance to straighten up and parry the next assault.

But he was over-extending himself, and Harrian knew it, for the thief rained down a flurry of blows in a neat, one-two pattern bringing up a routine from them both as he pressed forwards, Anomen forced to step back from each attack. A less experienced warrior than Anomen would have been taken unawares when Harrian finally changed the pattern of his attack, the sideways thrusts abandoned in favour of a harsh, overhead blow that made the cleric's skull its target.

Despite anticipating the change, the speed was such that Anomen had to physically throw himself to one side to avoid his head being severed. He lost his balance, tumbling down to the ground and splashing into the shallows of the nearby stream. The Skullcrusher flew from his hands into the deeper part of the river, not easily retrieved, and he looked up just in time to see the Equaliser swinging down towards him.

Anomen rolled over to the left, the fact that this was leaving him completely soaked irrelevant at this point, and Harrian stumbled a little as his sword hit water and then earth far lower down than the body of the priest would have been.

For said priest, instinct had taken over, defeating all the martial training he had received. Unarmed, he lashed out with his armoured foot at Harrian's knee, making contact and being rewarded for his kick with a satisfying _crunch_ that elicited a sharp cry of pain from the Bhaalspawn and sent him, too, tumbling into the stream.

Anomen didn't waste time to capitalise on this change. A quick blow aimed at Harrian's wrist sent the Equaliser out of the rogue's hand, and he then lunged upon the other man, tackling him and pinning him against the bottom of the stream. At this point it only came up to their shins had they been standing up, but it was enough to be distracting, and they were not too far from the sudden depths further into the stream.

Gauntleted hands rained down blows upon Harrian's unprotected face, the gentleness of his earlier attacks forgotten in the bid for survival he had now found himself in. Not all of them made contact; Harrian was thrashing, water was landing in his eyes, and the Bhaalspawn was stronger than he looked.

Indeed, Harrian made one more great effort and managed to bring his own fist up to deliver a solid punch to Anomen's jaw, sending the priest reeling back just long enough for Harrian to wrestle him over, he on top in this fight coming deeper and deeper into the stream.

Blood was pouring from the Bhaalspawn's nose, and his left eye was already swelling impressively, but he was in control enough to whip the dagger in his boot out. Anomen only just had time to raise a hand and grab Harrian's wrist before the blade could stab into his neck, and the thrashing between the two of them paused as they were locked in this contest of strength.

Anomen's was the greater power, but Harrian seemed to be fuelled by sheer will force, and the dagger was locked between them for long moments, wavering but not moving in either direction. Then, finally, Anomen raised his free right hand, reaching up for Harrian's face, vicious and desperate.

This counterattack saw Harrian pull back from the attempted stabbing slightly, and Anomen pushed forwards to try and grapple the Bhaalspawn away from his position of domination. They remained locked for another few moments, on their knees in the stream and facing each other, the blade still wavering between them, now directed at Anomen's chest.

Finally, Anomen moved to shift the weight between them over to their right side, the side which Harrian had been favouring with his injured knee, and the rogue let out a loud yelp of pain as force was suddenly brought down onto his injured side. The cleric used the momentum of the shift to wrestle Harrian back down into the water, further towards the depths.

This time, as he slammed the Bhaalspawn's head down, it was submerged under the water, and Anomen held Harrian's flailing form down there for a few long moments. The knife was still locked between them, Anomen's left hand steady in its grip of Harrian's right wrist, but his other hand was still managing to force Harrian down into the stream.

Then, after a few long seconds of Harrian splashing about under the water, Anomen yanked him up briefly. "Harrian, stop this madness!"

"You betrayed me! You're backstabbing me! I'll kill you!" The pressure from the knife did not subside, and then Anomen pushed him back down under the water, not particularly knowing how else to jolt their party leader out of this insanity of his.

Then again, he lifted him briefly out of the water. "Stop listening to Bhaal. That's who's fuelling your actions. It's not you, it's not your heart. It's Bhaal. Your walls of resistance have been crumbling for a long time, and this is the result."

"Are you insane?" Harrian laughed, shaking his head and sending droplets of water flying. "Bhaal's making me stronger."

"Really? I appear to have the upper hand. Bhaal will give you nothing but insanity, or death." Anomen scowled, then pushed Harrian back under the water, hoping that he could at least leave their party leader in a weak enough position for him to drag him back to camp, stick him in a tent, tie him up… and then ask Jaheira what to do. He didn't want to try and pummel him into unconsciousness whilst wearing gauntlets.

But, although he had been holding Harrian under the water for a few mere moments, only slightly longer than the two times before, his flailing became weaker rather rapidly. Anomen felt less resistance from the knife being pressed towards him, and the struggling of the Bhaalspawn faltered, and then stopped.

Anomen took a deep breath full of horror, then yanked Harrian back up towards the surface. He _couldn't _have been holding up underwater for… for that long…

As Harrian erupted from the surface, the knife came forwards, past Anomen's lesser resistance, and the blade was plunged deep into Anomen's breastplate, right up to the hilt – though the armour could have only given an inch or so of protection from such a clear, neat stab.

Anomen reeled back as Harrian clambered to his feet, his left knee probably not broken but still clearly rather damaged. That said, his leg wasn't too damaged to stop Harrian from lashing out with it in a vicious kick that caught Anomen under the chin and knocked him over backwards, flailing weakly into the stream.

"You think that you can just beat me like _that_? You think you can beat _me _with mere _water_? You're a fool, Helmite, and always have been. You wondered for a long time if you could bring me down the moment I stopped adhering to your 'righteous' ways, the moment I stopped toeing the line your and your gods-damned Order worships. Well, guess what? I won!" Harrian waved his hands victoriously, still stepping towards Anomen.

Anomen was in not state to argue as he just allowed himself to lie flat on his back in the shallows of the river. He could already feel himself beginning to weaken, the pain in his chest slightly numb but his awareness of his injuries quite acute. He couldn't summon up the energy to cast the simple healing spell it would take to fix this, and healing potions were at his belt, down at his waist, a distance that seemed insurmountable in that moment.

"Nothing to say for yourself, Helmite? Your defeat is too… embarrassing?" Harrian laughed briefly, then stepped forwards towards Anomen's prone form. "And I'd like my knife back, please. You're dirtying it." He leaned down, grabbing the hilt of his dagger and yanking it out, eliciting a grunt of pain and a spurt of more blood as he retrieved his blade.

"What… you… tell the other?" Anomen croaked, the chill of the river finally seeping into his bones in a way it hadn't when they had been fighting. He would have shivered if he could summon up the energy.

"I'll tell them what I need to tell them." Harrian wiped his blade on the sleeve of his shirt after splashing it around in the river a little. "They'll believe me. Why wouldn't they?" He smiled humourlessly. "This is for the best, Anomen. You really want to carry on watching the Bhaalspawn leaping ahead? Imoen becoming even further out of your reach?"

"Imoen…" Anomen closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering, slightly gurgling breath. "Tell her…"

"I'll tell her nothing. You don't _deserve _her, Helmite." Harrian turned to face him, scowling. "She's beyond you. Better than. It's been inevitable that she'll run past your grasp, and I'm probably doing you a favour to stop you from having to see it." The Bhaalspawn tilted his head slightly, eyeing him. "You dead yet?"

"Damn you, Bhaal," Anomen murmured weakly. "Harrian… know… that I… forgive you."

Harrian blinked for a moment, then shook his head and stepped forward. "I don't want your bloody forgiveness, priest. This is… it's…" He pushed through the faltering and leaned down to face Anomen. "It's what's right. You were in my way."

Anomen managed to reach up with one trembling right hand and brush Harrian's surprised face with a gauntleted hand. "I forgive you." Then the hand dropped, and he fell silent.

Harrian stared for a few moments. "Anomen?" His voice was still harsh, still full of a deep anger, but now uncertain.

Anomen did not respond.

Harrian straightened up, his expression a good deal more uncertain now. Then he managed another scowl. "Damn Helmite." His injured left foot came out to push the motionless body slightly, then shoved forwards to roll it down into the deeper levels of the river. "He had it coming."

The Bhaalspawn paused for a few long moments, staring at the spot of the river where Anomen's body had disappeared. Then he stepped back to the shallows, grabbing the Equaliser and sheathing it. He didn't look at the Skullcrusher, lying just a few feet away. His hand shook as he placed his dagger back in his boot, and adjusted his belt.

"Interesting."

Harrian whirled around to face the far bank of the river, on the side which led to further depths of the oasis which the army had not ventured into. That side was dark, well-shaded and not somewhere he would usually relish exploring.

It seemed that not everyone shared his uncertainty of the area. Especially not the dark-skinned elf that was stepping towards the river and her three drow companions.

"So the righteous Harrian Corias murders his friends when they do not adhere to his perspective. It seems that the tales overrate you."

Harrian blinked, looking at the intruder, then down to the spot in the river where Anomen had disappeared, and back again. "You must be Sendai. Remind me to sack my guards when I next see them."

"I've saved you that trouble. They're quite dead." Sendai the drow smiled thinly as she and her companions splashed lightly through the stream to reach his side. "It was foolish of you to try and master an army, Corias. It's not your style. You would have done better to remain independent, sneak into my camp, assassinate me."

"I'm not an assassin." Harrian scowled, the thick fog that had descended upon his mind back in the command tent finally faltering.

"Yaga-Shura would disagree. As would your Helmite. If they could, of course." Sendai smiled a thin, amused smile. She was, as most drow females were, strikingly attractive, though not quite to the point where Harrian found it distracting when she was a hair's breadth away from killing him without a second's thought. "You're attempting versatility and failing. An army is not your way. It is my way… but then… so is this subtlety. A fight will be large, and messy, and I only want _you_ dead, not these foolish humans. So if I just kill you now, my army will be fit for future campaigns, and you, one of my last opponents, dead."

"Who is the last member of the Five?" Harrian frowned, curiosity getting the better of him in this dark situation.

Sendai laughed briefly. "You have not realised? It is one who hides behind what he truly is, one who pretends to play righteousness whilst being truly Bhaal's pawn. One not too dissimilar to yourself. One you thought to be an ally."

Harrian stared. "Balthazar?"

"That fool, yes." Sendai's expression shifted to one of mock-surprise. "Oh, but there I go, telling you sensitive information. I suppose I'll just have to kill you to make sure I don't regret it." She smiled, then nodded to her three companions, one of which stepped forwards, drawing a vicious-looking blade.

Even as Harrian drew the Equaliser, he was not highly optimistic of the odds. Three thugs he could handle, however well-trained, but throw in a powerful Bhaalspawn…

"Oh, yeah." He smiled humourlessly. "This one should be fun."


	47. Chapter XLVII: Fists of Fury

**Chapter XLVII: Fists of Fury**

A scimitar flew spinning through the air suddenly, streaking just past Harrian's left ear and burying itself finally in the chest of the central drow, who let out a scream before finally splashing down to the ground, lying motionless in the stream's shallows.

"I am sorry," a voice from behind Harrian said, a finely-accented and very familiar voice. "But you did not invite us to this little gathering. That was rather rude of you all."

Harrian looked back to see Jaheira, shifting her remaining scimitar from her left hand to her right hand, and Imoen, with an arrow notched on her bow, emerging from the wilderness of the oasis that led back to the camp.

"I'll be sure to write more invitations next time." Harrian nodded to Jaheira, his expression a little uncertain as she stepped up to flank him, Imoen standing on the other side. He liked these slightly more even odds, but as he considered the last ten minutes he did not look forward to the future.

"That would be a good deal more polite." Jaheira smiled humourlessly, and was not stopped by the faintly stunned drow as she stepped forwards to retrieve her scimitar from the chest of the fallen would-be assassin.

"So the lackeys appear." Sendai's confidence had not faltered for one moment in this sudden, unexpected development. "They appear to defend a leader they do not even understand."

"We understand him well enough." Imoen's voice was hard and unwavering. "Make one move, begin to even mutter a single word of an incantation, and this arrow will end up between your eyes."

Sendai raised an eyebrow. "So the pet Bhaalspawn _can _talk. Perhaps you should use your powers of speech to ask your valiant leader just what happened to your Helmite back there." She gestured to the depths of the river only a few feet behind her, where the slight shape of Anomen, most notably his armour, could be seen even through the water.

Harrian scowled. "You _bitch_ –"

But Imoen had faltered with her steady aim for just a moment, and it was long enough for Sendai to act. She began to weave her hands through the gestures of an incantation, neatly side-stepping Imoen's sloppy shot to try and stop her, still mumbling the necessary words. At the same time, her companions lunged forwards with their vicious blades that rapidly struck those of Harrian and Jaheira.

However there was no time for anything more than a few exchanged parries between the four sword-fighters before Sendai finished her incantation, and threw her head back to let out an ear-splitting wail.

Harrian fell back, hands clasped over his ears, feeling the magical energy swirling around him, trying to seep _within _him, malicious intent filling the area and attempting to fill them all. But, as he shut out the outside world and focused just on dismissing the intrusive, painful force, he felt it subside and disappear.

Just in time to be able to regain his wits enough to react to what the two drow assassins were doing as their opponents writhed. He side-stepped the blow of the one focused on him easily enough, whirling around with the Equaliser to lift his sword and block the attack from the other aimed at Jaheira, who was still clearly focusing on her own internal battle against the magical energy and would not have been able to defend herself against outside forces.

Imoen seemed in a fit state, too, as she demonstrated by letting loose with another arrow, this one directed at the drow who had tried to attack Harrian in his moment of distraction. It hit him in the calf, bringing a yelp of pain and distracting him enough for Harrian to set upon him in a flurry of aggressive blows that the drow could do nothing against except defend frantically, losing ground with every attack.

Behind him, Jaheira had gathered her wits enough to attack the drow focused on her, all three of them seeming to have fought off Sendai's magical attack. Twin scimitars flashed in the sunlight as she effectively ran rings around the dark elf who could not quite keep up with the speed of both blades and was thus at a distinctive disadvantage.

It was clear that the only threat to them was Sendai, who was by now weaving her hands through another incantation. The way Imoen's next arrow bounced off an invisible field of protection showed she had not used the time pointlessly, and Imoen abandoned her own bow for the beginnings of her own incantation.

But Sendai was clearly further ahead, and when her incanting finished the air around Imoen swirled, forming into a giant, seemingly incorporeal hand which was nevertheless real enough when it grabbed her and lifted her above the ground, not even giving her time for a panicked yelp.

"Corias! Cease or I crush your dear _sister_!" Sendai yelled.

Harrian paused, the drow he had been facing faltering back and stumbling in the river. He scampered back to Sendai's side once Harrian's onslaught stopped, as did Jaheira's when the druid stopped her attacks.

The thief gave them both glances, looking uncertain. "I must ask, really, why you're doing this if it's quite clear you're just going to kill me."

Sendai raised an eyebrow. "True. But I don't have to kill _her_. She's irrelevant."

Imoen struggled a little against the surprisingly solid grip of the huge, magical hand. "Just kill her, Harrian…"

"So self-sacrificing. It brings a tear to your eye. In the face of death, seeing her lover already cut down, she..."

"Shut _up_!" Harrian snapped, the misty red fog descending again as he stepped towards Sendai. "Harm her, and I'll see you dead."

"I thought you'd see me dead anyway?" Sendai smiled an amused smile. "We shall see. Maybe the loss of your dear sister will drive you to a madness that makes it easier for me to kill you." She shrugged. "Either way, I suffer not if she dies."

Everything then seemed to slow down as Sendai raised a hand, presumably to gesture and make a directions to the great hand gripping Imoen, that could doubtless crush the life out of her within moments should the drow direct it to do so.

Harrian's grip on the Equaliser tightened as he lunged forwards, Jaheira beside him, to swing at Sendai, but both of their blades simply smashed harmlessly off her protections, and the two drow assassins lunged forwards to meet the fight again. Stopping the drow mage before she crushed the life out of Imoen did not seem hugely possible at that time.

Anomen felt like he was floating, which was rather odd considering he was aware that he was underwater. The pain in his chest was fierce now, past the numbness and stopping him from quite drifting off to the happy slumber that tugged at the back of his mind. He couldn't sleep with an ache like this, even though drifting off seemed so wonderfully tempting, so necessary.

_Anomen_…

His lungs were burning now, the air within them running out, and he shifted a little in the water. Inexplicably, the surface broke before him, only a tiny amount, but enough for him to refill on life-giving oxygen before he was tugged back down into the watery depths again.

_Anomen_…

He wanted to sleep. Only his lungs were replenished and the burning in his chest still fierce. So he could not ignore the voice echoing in his head.

_Fight, Anomen. Step up. You are not dead._

He should be dead, though. Right? He'd been stabbed by his best friend and dumped in the water to die. That was pretty doomed.

_If you surrender, Bhaal wins. The realms suffer._

That was a bit melodramatic, he thought. After all, Bhaal was _Harrian's _fight, not his. If he, Anomen, gave up it didn't mean that the fight was over.

_If you die, then you have died at the Bhaalspawn's hand when he was directed by Bhaal. That is a victory for a dead God_.

Well, perhaps he was better off without Anomen trying to protect him from Bhaal, as he seemed so very bad at it. He should probably just let Jaheira, or perhaps Reynald have a shot. In the meantime, once the ache in his chest subsided, he could have some sleep.

The water broke above him again, only briefly, and he instinctively filled his lungs.

He'd died once before. It hadn't been that bad.

_I will not bring you back again if you die now. If you die now, it is through surrender. Rise, Anomen. Do not fail me. Do not fail **them**._

They didn't need him! He'd clearly demonstrated his uselessness. It would be better if…

_What about her? She needs you. Dark times are ahead, and she will **need **you, even if she does not believe it_.

Imoen. Could he leave her?

_Rise, Anomen. Fight. She needs you now._

Why should she need him at that moment? She was in a tent, setting up camp, maybe beginning dinner with Sarevok's brutish assistance, waiting for them all to come and sit around the fire like they had so many times before. And every time he found himself captivated by her, watching how the firelight danced off her hair, and he always knew that Harrian had been right – that she was beyond him. But it had nothing to do with her Bhaal blood.

_Rise, Anomen. Or she dies with you_.

The surface of the water broke again, and this time it wasn't momentary as he stood up. He was covered in mud, sopping wet, and hugely disoriented, but it only took him a second to take in the situation before him.

Imoen in the grip of a magical fist. A drow mage directing this. Two lackeys fighting Harrian and Jaheira. Shouted threats of the mage of how she might crush Imoen with just the flick of a finger… and a hand reaching out to gesture to the magical fist.

Anomen lunged forwards, one gauntleted fist smashing into the back of the drow's head, landing heavily and painfully. But his other hand kept Sendai – he wasn't sure how he knew this was Sendai, but it had to be so – upright, twisting her around to face him so he could deliver another solid blow, this one landing in the middle of her face and making contact with a satisfying crunch.

The mage had a protection from magical weapons surrounding her, if the splashes of resistance from Harrian's attempt to join the fray once his drow was dead was any indication. But it was obvious that there was no spell currently working to protect her from an angry, gauntleted fist.

He could feel the blood singing in his ears, for one moment imagining that he might almost understand a fraction of what Harrian felt when under Bhaal's influence. He didn't want to stop – he just wanted to beat this drow's face until she was no longer going to present a threat to Imoen, or anyone else he cared about.

His throat was hoarse as he landed blow after blow, but he was hardly aware of having been shouting. Then, finally, another punch landed with a particularly heavy _crunch_, and the drow went limp in his hands for a brief moment before, as with all of the Bhaalspawn, the body faded from his grip, leaving him holding nothing more than a suit of enchanted drow chain.

Then he looked up at the others, and only then realised what a state he had to appear to be in, from the expressions in the others. He met Imoen's gaze briefly, then looked over at Harrian, who seemed on the verge of going into shock.

"Anomen… I…" The Bhaalspawn stared. "I thought you… I thought I…" He shook his head. "I thought you were dead!"

Anomen reached up to gingerly touch the hole in his armour and realised that, if he didn't get a potion down himself soon, the adrenaline would fade and he'd be liable to pass out. "You were wrong," he said simply, managing to grin at Harrian as he grabbed himself a healing potion. Then he met his friend's gaze. "You overestimated the strength of drow steel."

"Drow steel… that… that was a vicious cut…" Harrian blinked, looking completely lost. But before he could finish this sentence, to nobody's surprise he looked up, something new grabbing his attention.

He had just about time to speak, though apparently to nobody in particular. "Oh. Yeah. Again?" Then he promptly disappeared from sight, doing whatever it was he did that led him to the Pocket Plane.

Anomen took a big gulp of the healing potion, then tossed the suit of drow chain to Jaheira, who wore a thoughtful expression. "I do believe he shall only be a few minutes." Then he looked over at Imoen, his own expression concerned as he stepped over. "Are you alright, my lady?"

Imoen looked a little shaken, but nodded. "Yeah… yeah, I'm okay. That was just a close call."

Anomen smiled thinly. "Bear in mind, then, my lady… that I shall always be here to ensure these close calls miss."


	48. Chapter XLVIII: Losing Control

**Chapter XLVIII: Losing Control**

The hubbub about the camp was active, bright, cheerful, for the first time in probably an age. The news of the death of Sendai had travelled around the camp almost instantaneously, and all had been quick to celebrate hearing of the defeat of their enemy. But her army remained, and reports of scouts suggested that they weren't leaving just because their leader was dead. Hints at Sendai's army being better organised than Yaga-Shura's were coming to the forefront. These soldiers had a _cause_, rather than just a wish for gold.

Harrian had returned from his pocket plane with little mumbling to anyone else about what had happened. Being informed of the situation with the army, he'd taken Sendai's chainmail and insisted that, the next morning, they would ride out and try to talk the enemy army down, show them that their leader was dead.

If they did not submit, then it would be a time for battle.

He had not been able to meet Anomen's gaze as he'd said any of this. The one time that their eyes had met, briefly, accidentally, Anomen had been able to see the shame within his friend – and had felt the discomfort and faint fear within the pit of his own stomach. Then he had fled the conversation.

It was late evening by now, and Harrian had gone to disappear in his tent, no doubt brooding, for he had a lot of reason to do so at this point in time. Jaheira was visibly confused but clearly keeping her distance, and Imoen had retired to her own tent, professing fatigue.

Anomen really didn't know if he should keep what had happened a secret. A part of him insisted that it would be a betrayal of Harrian to tell what should have been Harrian's to tell. The more logical part of him claimed that the only reason he would have for keeping quiet was if he believed that he could deal with the consequences of Harrian losing control again; for there was no reason why this would _not _happen again, save perhaps an increased wariness on Harrian's part. And considering Anomen's miserable failure to keep Harrian under control when it had counted, he could not claim to be able to deal with the consequences.

He really should tell Jaheira, and Reynald, so that they could be prepared to deal with these consequences.

Not yet, though. Maybe tomorrow.

Yes, that would do.

His decision made, Anomen detached himself from the camp fire, and headed back towards the tent he shared with Imoen. Tonight, he wished to dwell on slightly more pleasant considerations, and ignore the fact that his best friend had almost killed him that afternoon. It would, he knew, take quite a distraction to overlook this little fact.

Imoen was poring over her spellbook as he slipped into the tent, curled up with a blanket over her shoulders in the desert chill, but not so oblivious to her surroundings that she did not notice him answer.

"Heya." She smiled softly as he clambered into the tent and eased himself down beside her, even though he could see the traces of concern hidden in her eyes. "How are you feeling?" Her hand came up to his chest, gingerly touching where she knew his wound had been. Underneath the light tunic he wore he knew he had quite a vicious scar. Another cheap potion could have dealt with it, but he wasn't inclined to remove it… it made a decent reminder of why he shouldn't fail again in these dark days.

"Better. Potions heal all ailments." He gave her a faint grin, raising his hand to clasp hers. "It has been… a long day."

"A bizarre day." Imoen shook her head.

He looked at her curiously. "How did you know to come and find Harrian and I?"

Imoen shrugged. "Reynald came to find Jaheira and me. Told us that Harrian flipped out in the meeting… we were just going to leave you to beat some sense into him, but then I had this… I can't explain it." Her voice trailed off and she frowned, glancing away. "This _feeling _that something was wrong. So I took Jaheira and we went to find you. Told Reynald to go back to appeasing the generals. He's doing a really good job with them, I think."

"He _is _the only one of us with any experience at commanding troops. Not to this extent, but he was hugely successful in the Order's campaigns in Tethyr in recent years. It's how he made his name, how his fall was considered to be so… bizarre." Anomen shook his head. "I am glad that your sense of doom paid off."

"So am I. Harrian clearly needed us there. Well, _you_ were alright without our intervention… but I was worried." Imoen shifted a little closer to him, letting him wrap his arms around her.

"No. I needed your intervention to get back up again," Anomen murmured. "It was your presence, the danger you were in, which let me find the strength to fight off death and beat Sendai. Otherwise I might have just… surrendered." He stroked her hair gently, and sighed. "You give me more strength than you know."

"You think I would be this far without your support?" She glanced up at him, and kissed him lightly.

Anomen smiled a little. "I shall always be by your side to help you, my lady. As I hope… as I hope you shall be with me, to provide me with the strength to do what is right. For I know I falter along that path without your aid."

"You were a good man before you even met me, Anomen, so don't give me that rubbish." She prodded him wryly.

"No. No, I was a confused man." He shook his head a little. "And I would like to see that you could keep me on the path of a good man… forever, if possible."

He didn't understand why Imoen's eyes darkened a little, why she stiffened slightly in his arms, and mistook it for a nervous apprehension, something to prompt him to press on as soon as possible.

"I know, Imoen, that this is not the finest time, or the finest place, but my brush with death today has shown me that I do not want to carry on living life worrying about what tomorrow will bring." He paused for a moment, reaching into his pocket for the small item he had retrieved from his pack earlier, in anticipation of this moment. "This… this ring belonged to my sister, Moira. I think she would…"

Imoen finally shifted away completely. "Anomen, are you asking me to marry you?" Again, that dark look in her eyes he was still quite convinced to be nervous apprehension, rather than a true… fear.

"If you would agree, my lady, I…"

"I can't agree." Imoen's voice was hard, tight, and he only realised in that moment that this was not some natural case of nerves getting to her. "I… I can't."

Anomen stared for a moment, noting with almost a clinical detachment how interesting the sensation of his stomach imploding was. "You… can't? Have I… done something…?"

"This isn't you. It's really not you." Imoen scrubbed her face with her hands. "Anomen, have you been paying attention to what's around us? What the Prophecy is saying? How all the Bhaalspawn are to die save Harrian? How the Eight are written in to be eliminated in a pre-described manner, how the more 'lesser' Bhaalspawn will just fall, like lambs to the slaughter."

"Yes, but…"

"And you didn't think how this would include me?" Imoen's words were coming out in a tumble of grief and confusion, seemingly letting them escape before they overcame her. "You thought I would honestly make it through these fights alive?"

"I…"

Imoen shook her head. "Anomen, I'm going to die here. Either in the battle tomorrow, or fighting against Balthazar later. Or some other time. I'm not going to live to see the end of all of this. And… I wasn't going to do Harrian's thing and push you away to protect you. I'm not as delusional as he, and I know that, for me, it would hurt just as much to lose you if you were pushing me away or not."

Finally, she looked up, and met his gaze. "But I'm not going to make a promise to you of a future that's not there. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to allow either of us to delude ourselves to that extent. I'm happy to live for the day. I _want _to enjoy every day. But there won't be many more. I've made my peace with that… and I don't want to make a promise to you I can't deliver."

Anomen stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending for seconds. Then, finally, with a mostly confused expression, he moved to leave the tent quickly, the cold wind of the desert at night slapping him in the face with a refreshing brutality that reminded him, very briefly, that he was alive and hadn't just died back in the tent.

The campfire still had three figures about it, and it didn't take Anomen long to realise that Jaheira, Sarevok and Reynald were still keeping a pointless watch. They all noticed him at once, noticed his expression, and Sarevok and Reynald did their best to pretend that they had noticed nothing wrong. Just as he wanted.

Jaheira, damn her, stood up from her perch on a log, stepped over to him, and grabbed him by an elbow, dragging him unresistingly over towards the shadows of one of the tents. "You look like death, Anomen," she started, with her usual candour.

Anomen snorted. "I feel like it, too." He paused, irritation fading from him as he stared off into the distance, then glanced back at her. "Is there a future? For any of us? Or are we all doomed by this Bhaalspawn prophecy?"

Jaheira's gaze dropped. "I would just try to live through it, Anomen. And not make plans for the future."

"So I have just realised." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I… no. I do not want to talk about this." He glanced up at her. "I would see to Harrian. Ensure he is… safe…" It was quite clear that Anomen's definition of 'safe' referred more to the safety of others than their leader.

Jaheira's grip on his elbow tightened a little. "No lashing out. Go, eat food, drink a little, talk of idle things with Sarevok and Reynald. Or… Reynald, at least. I will deal with Harrian." Her eyes darkened. "I know what happened. Fear not, we are not wandering around unaware of what he is capable of. Consider your duty to deal with him… ended. He is _my _concern now."

Anomen raised an eyebrow. "You think you can do it? It almost tore _my _heart in two to know I had to bear arms against him. It is not something…"

"It is something I have been aware I might have to do since before I knew him. It is something I know I shall deal with. But… he is not like that right now. Right now, he is Harrian, the man. And if he does not believe that the man has anything worth fighting for, the monster within will take over." Jaheira gave him a pointed look, then stepped away, into the shadows, heading for the tent she shared with Harrian.

She didn't know if Anomen was going to listen to her. She hoped he would get some sleep, perhaps in Reynald's tent, for they would all need to be well-rested by tomorrow.

She didn't doubt that there were few of them who would be getting full nights of sleep. It was her intention to make sure that the little corner of their existence she had control over was in the best state possible.

Considering the circumstances, she reasoned as she slipped through the canvas into her tent, the 'best state possible' might not be that good.

Harrian lay under the blankets, staring up at the roof of the tent, and hardly reacted as she came in. So she simply moved forward, crawling to curl in beside him, and was a little relieved to note he was responsive enough to hold her… though with an urgency and need that was unusual, even for the darker times he had turned to her.

"I…" His voice gave up with that one simple word, choking in his throat, and his grief and guilt was so heavy it was almost palpable.

"Shh." She stoked his arm slightly. "I know. I know what happened. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I should be locked up. Stuck in a cage at all times, only released when you need something killed." His voice was thick, anguished.

"That would suggest that you're nothing more than a monster. Monsters don't volunteer to be locked up." Jaheira fought down the sense of déjà vu… the two of them, talking in the Five Flagons, right after he had turned to the Slayer for the first time…

"Monsters try to kill their friends because they're in a bad mood. This isn't the first time this has happened."

"Shh." She silenced him again, this time with a light, delicate kiss that she could feel him savour. If she could lend him strength like this, she would. "You falter. You are on a far harder road than any of us. We don't have murder whispering our ear, and destiny trying to defeat us."

"I can't trust myself. I don't want to hurt any of you again… if Anomen had died there, I wouldn't have been able to… I _can't _forgive myself… if it had been you…" His words were coming in a disjointed tumble, and she could almost feel the faint thread he was hanging on to control by.

"You know you can fight. You're strong. And you have something to fight for…"

"I always have something to fight for." Harrian looked her in the eyes, taking a deep breath. "I just don't know if I can be any stronger. Sendai's dead, that means that I've got a third, or more likely _half _of the essence of the Eight in me. That just means it's going to get harder."

"I shall be here." Jaheira squeezed his hand lightly.

He met her gaze again firmly. "If I falter… kill me. Get the others in it… if I lose myself again, then I want you all to just kill me. Don't do what Anomen did, don't try to take me to one side and calm me down. If I falter again, kill me."

"It will not come to that." Jaheira frowned at him. "And I will not give up on you if you simply shout at us again. But I promise I will not let you harm friends or innocents under Bhaal's thrall. However I must do that, I promise I will not let you."

Harrian smiled slightly. "I believe you…" His voice sounded calmer now, under control. "I just don't know if…"

"Stop. Stop worrying." She silenced him with another kiss. "You are strong. You have reason to fight, and not just to avoid hurting others. To remain yourself. So work for a future." Despite her words to Anomen, she could feel that infectious promise of hope coming. "We should sleep. We have a battle tomorrow… and then Balthazar later."

"Yes. Balthazar. Damn him." Harrian frowned, but settled down a little, closing his eyes.

Jaheira waited, awake for long moments, listening to the pattern of his breathing and drawing her own comfort from his presence. Finally, from the deep breaths and fluttering of his eyelid and steady beat of his heart, she was quite certain he was asleep, and she pulled back a little to observe him.

He looked younger in slumber. A part of her had always suspected that he'd kept his goatee after the imprisonment in Irenicus' dungeon that had made shaving a difficulty so he could look a lot older than he had in Baldur's Gate. He had grown up in those months, stepped forward to direct the party, and had always tried to… look the part. But, when sleeping, the added years that experience and Bhaal piled onto him drifted away, leaving him looking like the fresh-faced young man who had stumbled into the Friendly Arm in two years ago.

Then there was the next layer which came when she would look on him in an unguarded moment, the layer that came from the experiences that didn't haunt him forever. The experiences that made him the man who had won her heart, rather than the boy who had infuriated her. That gave him a knowing glint to his smug smirk, a confidence in his walk that was not fuelled purely by arrogance. That separated the man from the boy.

These days, she was not seeing enough of that. She was only seeing the final part that made up Harrian, the part of Bhaal, the part that left him tired and dark all of the time, doomed and anguished.

She would give anything to see him shedding that off again, but was also equally sure that their circumstances would get worse before they would get better.

The army. Balthazar. And… and the consequences of what would happen after, once Harrian was the last one.

Jaheira shifted in closer to him, drawing strength from his presence, warmth from his body, and realised that she cherished the times like these more than perhaps any other time – she didn't always trust him to be _him _when he was awake.

Not that she was going to leave his side.

She listened for a few moments more, following the beat of his heart and his steady breathing, then leaned forwards a little to brush his cheek with her lips. She hesitated there, wavering for a long moment, opening her mouth slightly with words on the tip of her tongue.

But no. Speaking words, even whispering words, made them a good deal more real than thinking them. There was a time and a place to indulge in the mindlessly emotional, and this was neither, even though she had heard him mumble his feelings to her in the dark of night, when he thought sleep had taken her. That was how he did things. They were different in such matters.

Words weren't necessary. Actions said enough, surely.

Besides, he might not be quite fast asleep.


	49. Chapter XLIX: Battle Lines

**Chapter XLIX: ****Battle**** Lines**

"Your horse, general?"

Harrian glanced up from buckling his bracers at the soldier who was leading the massive bay warhorse towards the dunes where he and what seemed to be nothing more than a vague mass of his army milled about, even the burly warrior rather dwarfed by the animal. It seemed to have muscles on top of muscles, and from the way it hoofed at the ground restlessly, this did not appear to be any dull draft animal.

This was not quite what he'd expected when he'd said he would lead the cavalry. Oh, he'd _read _about warfare like this, really rather extensively, but the realisation of the fact that he was now being expected to lead an army from the top of the hugest horse he'd ever seen was only just seeping in.

"Oh… uh…" Harrian stalled for time for a moment, leaning down to buckle his leather greaves more securely. He had rejected offers for plate armour, aware that his fighting skills came more from speed than strength. He had, however, commandeered some chainmail, which he now wore underneath his leathers. A battle would be a rather different sort of combat for him to be involved in. He couldn't always guarantee his reflexes could save him.

But finally, he knew he'd have to face the fact that he'd have to ride this beast into battle.

"Thank you," Harrian said at last, glad his voice hadn't abandoned him. He stepped forwards, grudgingly taking the reins of the large animal. He knew how to ride horses… it had been a part of the education at Candlekeep that meant he hadn't died within seconds outside in the real world. The party had, when they could afford them, called upon the creatures for travel. He'd only fought from horseback a handful of times, but he'd known what he was doing in the process.

Still, this was a bit much. He wasn't entirely sure where to start.

"What's his name?"

The soldier smiled a toothy smile full of gaps. "Rothgar. He was Captain Asrael's horse. Finest beast in the army."

"Ah." Harrian patted 'Rothgar' on the neck slightly. The horse snorted, but ceased his irritable hoofing of the sandy ground. "Thank you," he said at last to the soldier. "I can handle him from here."

"Right you are, sir. Bear in mind he could be a little… twitchy before a fight. You're going to want to keep him in hand. But fine horseman like you shouldn't have any trouble, general." The soldier bobbed his head slightly, then disappeared as quickly as all of these men Harrian seemed to have gathered about him managed to do.

Harrian frowned, then glanced up at Rothgar, who seemed a little bored at that point and nudged him heavily with his nose. The force was enough to make Harrian stagger sideways a little, but he kept his footing and rewarded the horse with a scratch behind his big ears. "Yeah, you look twitchy. Wonder what's all this story about me being a great horseman?"

Rothgar didn't seem to have an answer, merely shoved his nose now towards the pouch at Harrian's belt, presumably sneaking snacks.

"What, don't they feed you at the stables? Greedy little bugger, aren't you?" Harrian smirked. There was nothing about this horse that _was _little.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to converse with the creatures of nature?"

Harrian glanced around, smiling tentatively as he saw Jaheira stepping over towards him. The darkness of the previous day had been chased away somewhat, first by the distraction of the battle ahead, now by her sheer presence. "It'll stop him from eating me."

"He won't eat you. I think he just wants attention. He knows something is going to happen." Jaheira stroked the white stripe down Rothgar's face softly, and the horse stopped pestering Harrian. There were a few moments as she mumbled something under her breath, her eyes fixed on the animal, and after several seconds Rothgar snorted and pawed at the ground again.

"He'll take care of you," Jaheira decided at last, looking up at him. "I just hope you can take care of yourself enough."

Harrian shrugged, one of his cocky smiles rising to the surface to try and cancel out the churning in his stomach. "Hey… it takes more than just some poxy battle to get rid of me. We'll be feasting on the extra supplies from Sendai's army tonight."

"Not all of us."

"All of _us_, yes." Harrian nodded firmly. "The army… yeah. This is inevitable. I don't like it, but when Sendai got herself an army this stopped being just about the Bhaalspawn and became about everyone who's threatened by her. I wish these others weren't involved, but that wasn't for me to decide. But once this army's gone, they can go back to their lives. The rest of us… we still have Balthazar to deal with."

"I found his identity as one of the Five to be… an odd revelation." Jaheira frowned.

"It is. I think he'll have explaining to do. He didn't have that… taste of corruption." Harrian shook his head. "But that's tomorrow. Today, we have a battle to fight."

"And you must cease to be Harrian the Adventurer and be Harrian the General." Jaheira's gaze was penetrating, ripping away layers and layers of masks he was hiding behind for protection by the second.

"If I can be." Harrian tore his own gaze away, fixing it on Rothgar, who by now seemed rather placid after what had apparently been a quiet discussion with the druid. "If I know what I'm doing. If I'm not leading them up the wrong path. What do I know about the military?"

Jaheira reached out to take his hand that held the horse's reins. "Trust me, Harrian… what makes them follow you, what makes you plan, what has turned you into this general that they see… it is not an illusion. And it is not made up of your experiences. This is from _you_."

"Or my Bhaaltaint. I wouldn't be the first Bhaalspawn to be gifted with powers of leadership. I just never needed to know until now." Harrian scowled, though he was slightly reassured by her presence. "Not all that encouraging."

"It may suggest that something good might possibly come out of the Bhaaltaint. That it's a matter of who _you _are just as much as a matter of what Bhaal was." Jaheira looked at him seriously. "Whichever it is, I believe that today, you can lead us forward to victory."

"Very dramatic." Harrian smiled sheepishly, more sincerely, then nodded. "Hearing you say that… does help." He glanced over her shoulder. "Now I'd go get your horse, because the fun's about to begin." He leaned forwards to kiss her on the forehead briefly, then turned and began to tackle the battle in itself that was mounting Rothgar as she headed off.

With his head cleared by Jaheira's pep-talk, he was thinking a lot more precisely. The 'random milling' of his cavalry he'd thought he'd been seeing before was, it was now clearer, his unit organised just as he'd wanted it. The panic of the responsibility was not quite as… distractingly intoxicating as it had been before.

He could do this. He _had _to do this.

He urged Rothgar into a trot as he headed towards the front of the assembled cavalry of the right flank of his army. Scouts had reported the mobilisation of Sendai's army that morning – there had not been any collapse into disarray at the loss of their leader, though they would have doubtless sustained a huge blow. Even if they scattered, that would have been leaving a large force of armed soldiers to rampage around the countryside, often one of the more universally destructive after-affects of any war.

This army of drow, fire giants, and any of the men that had been assembled by either Sendai or Yaga-Shura were not slinking off into the night. They were standing to fight. Harrian was just going to have to be prepared to defeat them.

He was _fairly _sure he was.

A flash of blue amongst the crowd as he trotted on caught his attention, and he reined Rothgar in, sand spraying a little. "Haer'Dalis! I thought you were with the supply wagons at the back?" he called out, having to fight briefly with his mount to stop the large warhorse from just plunging onwards across the dunes.

The bard turned to face him from where he stood with a small collection of soldiers, looking almost surprised at Harrian's arrival. The soldiers he was standing with fell into a respectful, but rather disconcerting silence. "I shall be, my raven, I shall be. I was simply having a brief word with the men, to ensure their spirits are high."

"Right." Harrian's eyes narrowed at him, and he raised a hand to beckon the bard. As Haer'Dalis drew level with approximately Harrian's boot, he leaned down a little to face the tiefling. "I've been hearing… murmurings. Or not just murmurings. The expression on the part of some of my men regarding my wonderful skills as a horseman and my general fighting prowess. Now, the fighting prowess – not to blow my own trumpet – I can understand. But the wonderful skills as a horseman?"

Haer'Dalis shrugged with an innocence Harrian didn't believe. "It is possible that your story has been exaggerated over time."

"You've been the principal story-teller! You're about the only bard who's had anything accurate to report! You're also the only bard who knows my tale and is in this army. Any of the others all heard the story from you. So why have you been telling them things about me that aren't true?" Harrian's voice was a little strained, more than a little worried.

Haer'Dalis fixed him with a gaze. "You do recall, my raven, that today you are more than just a director of a battle, you are a symbol and a banner in yourself." Despite the phrasing, it wasn't a question.

"I can be a symbol by myself. I don't need glorification to do that. Not when it descends into turning me into something I'm not. I might have all of this power, and there might be aspects to my story which are… rather unbelievable. But don't build me up beyond my true level. A Bhaalspawn I may be, but I am still just a man, and I still have flaws. There's nothing more disheartening to discover that your heroes are still just human. I'd rather I didn't disappoint my men to a level beyond which I usually disappoint people." He grimaced. "So… get back with the bards. Get to the war drums. Get to the singing. We'll need it. But remember who I am, and remember that I'm not some creature of legend for you to play with for your own blasted songs."

Harrian straightened up as the bard ambled off, and again he carried onwards with Rothgar, heading towards the assembled horsemen. By then, most eyes had turned towards him as he started for the front of the ranks, and much as he would have preferred, right then, to be nothing but another incognito face amongst the assembled soldiers, he found himself compelled to catch the eye of every man he could and, at least, give them a firm nod. Or a brief word of encouragement. Or a pat on the shoulder.

Damn it, he was actually settling into this general lark.

Jaheira had, inexplicably, beaten him to the small assembly of his officers in front of the main ranks. From this position, slightly higher on the dunes, the oasis left far behind and his soldiers no longer blocking his sight, Harrian had a far better view of the rest of his army. He'd thought his own cavalry were a sizeable force, but they were hardly a quarter of the troops that Asrael had assembled for him.

Along the sands, mostly wrapped in white cloaks to deny the burning sun its victory, his army stretched out. There was his right flank of the cavalry, all on irritable-looking horses agonised by the heat and being wound up by the tension of the other beasts and their riders. If the soldiers weren't itching for a scrap, their mounts certainly were.

Then there was the main body of the army, his infantry. First rank, a solid line of shield walls, under the command of Lieutenant Avaris, as best he could tell. Behind them, the pole-arms, ready to protect them from a potentially devastating assault of the cavalry. The foot-soldiers were a slightly rag-tag group as the line went further down and the difference between Asrael's original men, any surviving soldiers of Saradush, and then the general populace who had flocked to Harrian's banner could be seen. Easily the weakest point of his army, but the most effective when used well. Beran, in particular, had collared the skirmishers amongst the army and transformed them from woodcutters who could swing an axe at a tree but no man into an effective light strike force. It hadn't surprised Harrian when Imoen and Sarevok had decided to join that group, furthering the offensive capabilities of the infantry. The shield wall would be a solid defence, backed up by pole-arms. The skirmishers would be the ones striking the main blows.

Then, further down, was the left flank of the cavalry, under the command of Reynald and Anomen. At this distance they were little more than a vague collection of shapes, standing out from the infantry solely by size. The pincer-movement was a time-honoured tradition of any military effort, protecting the infantry from flank attacks while hopefully scoring their own blows against the side of the enemy forces and driving them towards the solid line of the pole-arms and shield walls.

That was the idea, at least.

Harrian glanced back at Jaheira as he reined in Rothgar, and raised a hand to scratch the back of his head. Although he had accepted wearing chainmail – something that weighed him down not a little, and he somewhat regretted the decision – he would draw the line at a helmet. It did mean that the desert sun was rather hot on the back of his neck, but he was baking anyway underneath his armour and knew the day would only get worse. He could survive mere heat, anyway.

"We've got confirmation that everyone else is ready?" he asked Jaheira as he headed over, halting in front of the rest of the cavalry.

It was a young man on a slightly smaller, lighter horse whose hooves danced on the sand with impatience as he spoke who answered. "I've just co-ordinated with Lieutenants Beran, Avaris, Delryn and de Chatillon. They're all ready to begin marching, on your orders. The scouts have also confirmed the mobilisation of Sendai's army."

"What was _once _Sendai's army. Now they're just a mob fighting for war's sake." Harrian frowned. "Right. I'd get back to them, then, lad. I think it's time we marched."


	50. Chapter L: Half a League

**Chapter L: Half a League**

"What do we have here?" Harrian narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun as he looked down the sandy dunes at the assembled might of what had once been Sendai's army. "They seem… well, more organised than the scouts' reports would have suggested."

"Not uncommon," Reynald sniffed, pushing back the hood of his white cloak and brushing some sand from out of his hair. "Asrael was lost, and yet his army has remained intact. You cannot take credit for all of that." He managed a thin smile.

The party and the key officers of the army had assembled at the front of their troops, in the large space between the two huge forces. It seemed that a battle needed a build-up. But first, Harrian was going to do everything he could to try and avoid any war breaking out.

"I'd rather not. I would prefer to take credit for this battle being won without a single blow." Harrian turned on his saddle slightly and glanced back at the young man who had been running messages between the various sections of the army. "You up for running a message to some drow, lad?"

"You have the armour, general?" The young man smiled eagerly, but Harrian could see the slight fear in his eyes. He hated that – the man looked as if he'd ride into the Hells if asked, but would be pissing his pants all the way. He didn't want that sort of power over people whose names he hardly even knew – he didn't want to be able to influence people to do something that utterly against their will.

"Here." It was Anomen who reached behind where the chainmail that had been Sendai's was slung over the back of his saddle, and passed it over to the messenger. The armour was distinctive, certainly, and would likely be proof enough – along with the disappearance of their leader – of the drow's death.

The young messenger took the armour, hefting it briefly before resting it on the pommel of his saddle. "The banner bearer at the front, general?"

"You're likely to find a command group there. Apparently it's just one of her drow captains who's assumed command with delusions of grandeur and a desire to wreak havoc upon surfacers." Harrian smiled thinly. "Let's see how eager she is to fight with her leader dead and the surfacers' sun at its highest."

"I would not underestimate the drow in combat," Anomen said stiffly.

"I don't. We've beaten up enough of them, remember?" Harrian smirked somewhat, forcing his own cheer. He glanced back at the others as the messenger set off at a brisk trot on the long route towards the other army. Right then, it was just a face-off. Not a battle.

He hoped they'd surrender once they saw Sendai was dead.

"The Underdark was slightly different to an army," Imoen pointed out tentatively, arms folded across her chest. She stood in Sarevok's shadow, presumably intentionally, for the large warrior blocked out an awful lot of the sun – the two of them were the only members of the party not on horseback at that moment.

"From all I heard, I am mostly glad I was not present for that debacle," Reynald said dryly.

Harrian glared slightly. "It wasn't a debacle." He looked at them all, Rothgar taking a few paces back irritably until he reined the horse in. "Look, I know we're a little out of our depth here… I know this isn't anything we've done before… and I know we're all terrified." At their slightly blank, slightly closed-off faces, he managed a wry and dimly genuine smile. "I know I am, at least."

Then their expressions softened, and Harrian felt a small amount of the burden of guilt that had been on his heart all day lift a little. So they _could _remember that he was still him, still Harrian, still human. Not a slathering slave of Bhaal's taint.

His heart soared a little at the realisation. Maybe Jaheira was right. Maybe they _could _make this all right.

"We've survived so far by trusting each other. And I know I haven't done much to keep your trust lately… but I'm asking you to give me it for just a little longer. And I promise you I will get us all through this."

Then their expressions dropped, and it took Harrian a few long seconds to realise that their focus had ceased to be on him.

_Helm, they **beheaded **the boy…_

Harrian frowned. _Wait a moment…_

The thought hadn't been his, but as he wheeled Rothgar about to face Sendai's army, he could see that the voice in his head which sounded a worrying amount like Anomen was indeed correct. The horse of the messenger, with _most _of the body still on board, was cantering back up the slope towards the army, leaving a small trail of blood in its wake on the sand.

_So, it has come to this. They choose battle_.

"I wish you weren't right, Reynald," Harrian said, answering the voice without thinking.

Reynald blinked, and looked at Harrian. "Sorry, my friend?"

"You said they're choosing battle." Harrian returned the stare for a moment. "Or… you were about to."

"It is… quite obvious." Reynald blinked again, and there was another pause before Harrian turned his head away.

"Time to form up, then," he instructed the others, giving Beran and Avaris quick glances to motivate them. "Reynald, Anomen, get back to your ranks. Jaheira, get back to the right flank. Sarevok, Imoen… no, Im, wait a minute…" He looked at his sister keenly. "I don't suppose, in your world of magical talents, you have any way of allowing me to be heard by everyone here?"

Imoen smirked, though he could see a good deal of uncertainty in her eyes. For once, he didn't think the worry was directed towards him. "Pretty sure I could whip that up. Looking to do the big heroic speech then," she said, as the others returned to their positions with the ranks.

Harrian leaned down towards her. "Well, yes." He smiled a little bashfully. "I think it needs to be done. Thank you. And… don't worry. We'll be drinking together on a field of victory by tonight. You're not going anywhere." He reached out to grasp her shoulder, his voice certain.

"If you say so." Another smile, brighter, and he felt his heart warm at the genuine expression.

_Play happy, maybe he'll fall for it…_

The voice in his head that time was _definitely _Imoen's, and all of a sudden he could disconcertingly see cracks in that smile, that happy smile, the one she had always flashed him in tense times and that had left him convinced that she could weather anything. All of a sudden, he could see straight through her smiling exterior into her terrified core, and it stretched far further than just this war – the fear stretched right back into the earliest days, and the door was thrown open to him to see that every time she had smiled at him like that and he had believed in her confidence was a lie.

He opened his mouth to say something, but by the time he could summon the words, summon an argument that could _really _comfort her, she had muttered some arcane phrase under her breath and all of a sudden he was keenly aware that his next few words would be loud enough for all the troops to hear.

Maybe they would have this discussion later. Right then, he had to play General to an army that needed to believe in him.

Perhaps there had been some truth to Haer'Dalis' argument after all.

He nudged Rothgar into action, and the horse lunged into a trot, approaching the troops. He was keenly aware of the enemy army behind him shuffling into readiness for battle, as his own soldiers were doing.

"Men of Tethyr!" he began, and indeed his voice was amplified quite enough for the several thousand-strong force to all hear his every word. "We thought the fighting might have been over when the head of this snake of an army was cut off. Seems we thought wrong – the body's thrashing around in a desperate effort to frighten us! And I don't know about you, but I don't find a toothless snake to be particularly intimidating!"

Laughter. Genuine cheer from the troops washed over him, and he felt his heart swell with pride, with inspiration in the moment. Jaheira _had _been right… he could do this, he could lead them, and he could lead them as a man, not a creature of murder.

_He's right… there are a lot of them, but they don't have a leader_…

Not his voice, nor one he recognised. Gruff, southern in accent.

"We don't find a headless snake to be frightening because we are strong. Because we can stamp on that snake. But there are those in this country who are weaker than we are. The honest folk who work the land, who live simply, who rely on the strong like us to defend them. It is our duty, as the strong, to stop this snake from ravaging our lands, our families, our cities and towns and villages. This headless snake might not be able to bite any more, but it can still thump pretty hard."

_We're here to fight for those we care about… to stop these thugs from rampaging around…_

A different voice, but similar in temperament to the one before. Nor one he recognised, echoing around his head.

"I'm asking you all to stand here and fight with me. None of you are forced to. You all have homes to go to, family you can go back to. If you stay and fight, I cannot promise you that you will live to see them again. So I will understand if any of you wish to leave now."

Whenever Harrian had read speeches like that, he'd always thought them to be cheap blows at shaming people into staying. But although this wasn't how he had felt responsible in the past for the fate of his companions on his dangerous path, he did still feel a keen responsibility to these soldiers – these soldiers who were marching to death for him.

No. Not just for him.

"But if you leave, then that makes us weaker. And we need to be strong if we can protect your families, your people. So I ask you to stay with me. You may die here – any of us may die here – but I promise you that, if it be so, you will die as heroes."

'Hero'. There was a funny word for him to be throwing around. He'd tried for what felt like a lifetime to avoid the label, and now he was using it to tempt men to their deaths.

_To leave now would be cowardice_.

Again, not his thoughts. Again, a voice he could not recognise.

"We are stronger than they are. We are better than they are. They fight only for destruction, they cause death for death's own sake. We are here to fight to _stop _death, _stop _destruction. We fight for a cause beyond our own lives. And that is why we shall win."

_We're going to win this war. I'm proud to follow this man into battle_.

What in the Hells was going on?

Harrian blinked, but shook his head and pressed on as he nudged Rothgar into a canter and directed him back towards the ranks of the cavalry on the right flag. "We'll win today, and I'll see you all in the camp tonight getting uproariously drunk on their mead!"

More laughter, which this time evolved from amusement into a chant. Harrian felt a faint tingling at his throat suggesting Imoen had ended her spell, just in time to hear the army reply to his speech with its own voice.

A voice chanting his name over and over, a mantra of victory.

He only hoped he could bring them that victory.

As he reached his cavalry they all appeared to be ready for the fight, Jaheira astride her horse at the head. Across the sandy dunes, although the sunlight reflecting off the metal was a little blinding, he could see the opposing army forming up in preparation for battle. But they weren't as quick as his forces were; weren't as well-oiled and well-organised. To strike now could catch them still in the preparation process.

"Think it's time to lead the charge?" he asked Jaheira, giving her a lopsided smile as he drew level with her.

"I never knew you were one for speeches," was all she replied, wearing her own wry expression.

_He **is **still a strong man. He **can **still fight off the taint. He **will **lead us to victory, as himself, as a man, not as a Bhaalspawn._

And though he knew not from where it came, that confirmation, that utter faith of Jaheira in him echoing about his head was intoxicating enough to make him feel as if he could take on the world by himself.

So it was in the highest of spirits that he turned Rothgar to face the opposing army, glanced back at his own cavalry, pulled out the Equaliser, and raised it in the air. His soldiers raised their own weapons in response, ready for his signal.

The tension in the air was high. The troops were still chanting his name, and he could see the commotion down the line of the final preparation for an assault. But all were waiting for his mark, the left flank ready to leap into action once the right flank moved, and the infantry preparing to make their advance.

They just needed him to start it all.

_We can do this. We can win._

_I'll be drinking to victory tonight._

_We can follow General Corias to the Hells and back. He won't do us wrong._

Harrian glanced up at his sword, up at the sky, then back at the enemy army. No. He wouldn't do these men wrong, not if he had a shred of strength about him.

The Equaliser came down, he nudged Rothgar into action and knew, without needing to see or even hear, that the men behind him were following him, with him every single step of the way in this charge into battle.


	51. Chapter LI: Volleyed and Thundered

**Chapter LI: Volleyed and Thundered**

The hooves thundered on the sand, sending up a storm so strong Harrian was almost amazed the soldiers behind him could even see as the space between the two armies grew smaller with each passing moment.

_Gods… I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die._

What? They weren't going to die. They were going to _win_. Harrian knew this. They only had infantry ahead, apparently human but no shield walls, probably a pack of skirmishers ready to be flattened by the cavalry charge.

Then that same voice espousing death seconds before echoed about his head again.

_No… no. We can do this. I can win._

He didn't know who the hell this person was.

But he wasn't the only person in Harrian's head. Just the one at the forefront at that moment.

He could hear all these voices, echoing around, most of them just an absent mumble, all rather charged. The tension that had filled him as he'd made his speech hadn't disappeared, or been replaced with the tension of battle. He was still very keenly aware of the army about him; his cavalry behind him, the rest of the forces over down on the left.

Good Gods, was it his _army _he could hear in his head?

What had done that? The speech?

They were almost on top of the infantry now, the small faces seeming bigger, Harrian himself at the head of this charge. Just a few more tens of yards…

_We're going to kill the bastards. Kill them all._

…not Bhaal's voice, but not his own either.

Harrian grimaced, focusing as much as he could when clinging to the back of a massive warhorse, swords in hands and hurtling into battle. Voices of some of the more bloodthirsty of his men in his head would _not _help his self-control.

The infantry lifted the pikes that had been resting on the sand before them.

If he'd seen it sooner, Harrian might have tried to rein in Rothgar, stop the mad charge – though it would have been hopeless. And, overall, from a grand, military perspective, pointless. A solid wall like this wouldn't be so solid when it had a tonne of cavalry land on it. It would just dent the cavalry.

The cavalry he was at the front of.

For one of the first times, his unspoken ego decided to actually raise its head. He couldn't die _here_. He couldn't die at the front of a cavalry charge like this! He couldn't even die in this battle; it would be a footnote in the Bhaalspawn saga. There was no great enemy to kill, just a threat to put down. And he _certainly _couldn't die in this particular moment, like this.

But as the cavalry closed the final yards, it seemed chance disliked his ego.

He felt his forward motion attempt to stop suddenly, and a huge shudder run through his horse as they finally lunged upon the infantry. Then, abruptly, he was flying forwards, through the air, over Rothgar's head and into the pile of men before him.

He hit the ground – well, rather, he hit one of the men a few rows in, the two of them landing in a pile of metal and sand and heat and war.

And then the rest of the cavalry hit.

The Skullcrusher twirled neatly in the air before coming down upon the head of a drow foolish enough to look up at the cavalry charge landing upon him as the right flank of Harrian's army struck.

Anomen took the next, inexpertly aimed blow from the horseman facing him on his shield, before bringing his mace back up again to crack into the other soldier's ribs and sending him flying off his mount. It seemed as if the drow had commandeered any of the human's horses for the purposes of this military exercise; beasts of the Underdark probably took less kindly to sunlight than even the dark elves.

"Anomen!"

He turned slightly, mace still upraised as he heard his voice over the din of battle, almost amazingly. Reynald was on the other side of him, bastard sword slicing at another drow foolish enough to approach them. He looked dishevelled already, a little lost in the spirit of the battle, a state of mind Anomen was fairly familiar with.

"I see the supply wagons. Marauding them might get us some attention." The light of the fight was clearly in his friend's eyes as he grinned a slightly feral smile.

"And give up on the amusement here?"

Anomen paused briefly as he realised his own words – amusement? In a fight? – but could not stop to think for too long, as the drow charging in on his right side demanded an answer.

It got one, in the shape of a mace head flying through the air to crack it in the skull, sending it to the ground, lost under the chaos of battle and horses.

"Damnable fiend!" Anomen snapped, irritation building up within him as he struck. Then he whirled around as another seemed to try and creep up upon him, quite a feat on horseback, but was struck about the skull by the mace-head and sent flying off its mount.

He could feel the usual bubbling adrenaline of battle in his stomach now, and, ignoring Reynald, whirled his horse around to push forwards into where the throng of drow was thickest, mace flying.

_By Helm, I will see these dark marauders pay for what they have done… I shall see to it that they do not continue to assert their iniquitous rule over these lands. Harrian may have taken leave of his senses somewhat, but he's still **right**… we should still be here, still be doing this_.

Another, vicious overhead blow all but flattened the skull of his next assailant.

_Dark blood, for dark hearts._ Anomen raised his holy symbol of Helm and began to chant in a low voice, blocking any attempted attacks in the meantime with his shield. Finally, a bright, shining light that didn't help the vision of the half-blinded drow filled him, settling around him, and finally finding his mace as a focal point.

Anomen's eyes narrowed, and as he turned to look at the drow who had been attacking him, even they seemed to be shining with this inner light. "This is not just a war," he muttered in a thick, venomous voice that hardly seemed to be his own as he swung his mace at the drow, who managed to expertly block it.

"This is a crusade. A purging of you and your kin." The next blow was not blocked quite so well, and the mace-head connected with the drow's chest, knocking it sideways a little but still keeping its seat.

"And it is my duty, now, to slay you – or send you back to the dark netherworld you came from!"

And this time, the bright, shining mace of Skullcrusher lived up to its name.

Harrian was moving quicker than he knew he could with chainmail on him, infused with the battle and driven on by this utter awareness of the entire army around him, this bizarre connection. He could feel Bhaal, tugging at him, but even he seemed like some sort of after-effect with the voices echoing in his head.

Still, being on foot and suddenly facing a pile of skirmishers when all on his side were on horseback wasn't a particularly pleasant situation to be in.

It was just as well Harrian knew how to fight well enough to stay alive.

The Equaliser and the Daystar moved in unison, as if one entity, slashing and hacking through the men who had previously been more focused on the horsemen around them than the general beside them. Controlled, but lethal.

_Why do you push me back?_

That voice _was _familiar, and he did his best to ignore his father's plea, just continuing with the wordless action of killing. He tried to will Bhaal's voice back into the echoes of everyone else's, but doubted he would enjoy much success.

_Use me. I can make you stronger, faster, better. You could win this fight single-handedly if you didn't deny me!_

Harrian snorted briefly, ducking under a heavy axe-swing of a fairly large human. He sincerely doubted Bhaal's claim.

_You hold yourself back. What do you have to lose? Take my power and unleash it upon your enemies! You were always afraid of what it would do to your friends; now, witness the power of the Lord of Murder on those you seek to kill! Stop being a coward your entire life!_

The force of the voice, the strength of Bhaal in his head, was enough to disrupt his focus. Harrian stumbled a little, and the axe-wielding soldier before him gave a huge, overhead swing. Harrian's swords locked in time to block the blow, but with his footing unsteady, he still fell down, on his back, looking up at his assailant.

_He's trying to kill you. Kill, or be killed. That is the way of things. Not just my way._

Harrian rolled to one side to avoid the next axe-swing, attempting to lash out at the soldier's knees but not quite moving fast enough.

_Unleash the anger within you, and we will both see him dead. Then his comrades. All of them. This entire army, dead._

_It's what you want, isn't it?_

He blocked the next downwards blow, but inexpertly, and felt the blade get deflected down to bite slightly into his shoulder. The hit was a poor one for his blocking and for the chain protecting him, but it still prompted a yell of pain and a stinging in his left arm.

_Kill, or be killed_.

Then the misty red vision fell over his gaze and he lunged upwards, swords swinging to gut the axe-man before he could even react. A quick twirl and an upwards stabbing motion brought an end to any sneaky considerations of the smaller man approaching him from behind, and a sideways slash cut the head of the man next to him almost completely from his body.

And as this red mist prevailed, Harrian was only partly aware of this same anger, this same lust for bloodshed, descending down upon the voices all around him, working up into a crescendo of murder in his head.

_Stab, thrust, kill… Die, you black-skinned scum!... I'll kill you all… Thank me for sending you back to your dark god, filthy drow!... I'll kill you all… I'll kill you all…_

Sarevok's sword flashed in the bright sunlight of the desert, briefly developing the glow of a precious jewel before it sliced into dark flesh and blood and bone. The drow body gave way before the enchanted metal, and the Warblade came back out again for him to twist around with another mighty swing to slay the next around him.

Then he paused, frozen with his blade still stuck in the corpse of his latest kill, as he could almost _feel _the battle around him change. The rather small, slightly scared young man he'd been fighting beside for the last few minutes let out a loud, blood-curdling – for any lesser mortal – scream, and charged into the fray, his short swords flying about him as he landed in middle of a particularly thick pack of drow and began to fare far better than Sarevok would have expected.

He wasn't the only one. The grim determination of the soldiers around him, which was in itself a greater focus than Sarevok had ever quite expected, had faded to make way for a sudden anger, a sudden viciousness that was filling them all.

Indeed, the skirmishers amongst these drow had been dangerous and resolute, but as the volume of the shouts of battle rose into a cacophony of bloodlust, Sarevok had to concede that something here had gone quite wrong.

And there was a faint tingling at the back of his head which suggested it wasn't just the soldiers.

Sarevok turned around quickly to see a flash of light and energy crackling a few metres away from him, and he elbowed and stabbed his way through the crowd to make his way to its source. As he had thought and feared, Imoen stood there, her hair a little crazed but her eyes flashing with a greater insanity, magical energy crackling from her fingertips.

He lunged for her, grabbing her by the elbow and yanking her back a few paces from the forefront of the fighting. "Imoen! What in the Hells is going on?"

Imoen looked up at him, her expression uncertain for a few moments, yanked out of whatever mindset she'd been in as he'd found her. "They're animals, Sarevok. We've got to put them down, like animals."

Bhaal's words. Words he knew well. But not, he could feel through their indistinctive connection, Bhaal's words to _her_. Why was the promise of murder filling her from elsewhere, filling all of these soldiers?

What had Harrian _done_?


	52. Chapter LII: Shattered and Sundered

**Chapter LII: Shattered and Sundered**

The left flank of General Harrian Corias' cavalry had broken through the lines of their enemies with surprising ease upon the discovery of these newfound high spirits of the soldiers. With the traditional desires of all soldiers in a fight, once the thoughts had come down from killing, the thoughts went to plundering.

Only, the idea of killing hadn't quite left Reynald's head as he cantered up towards the supply wagons behind the lines, and the medical tents with only a handful of guards that he cut down himself, the Blade of Searing making short work of them. They could grab gold, yes, jewels, yes, supplies, yes. But any resistance he would meet with… death.

Reynald swung his boot over the back of the horse to dismount, leaving the animal to sniff around for supplies of its own accord, and stepped over towards where one drow had been lying on his back in the sun, shield over his face to try and get some shade.

"Burns, doesn't it," Reynald hissed, kicking the shield away and bringing his foot down finally on the drow's arm to stop it from whimpering away. "The light? It's hot, and it's bright, and it burns creatures like you. Because you're just too used to your own darkness to see the light." He smiled slowly, the blood singing in his ears as he heard the men behind him begin to forage around the supply wagons, a few short screams punctuating the pockets of resistance from the drow.

"I understand." Reynald nodded, lowering his head to look closer at the drow, even though he was quite sure it couldn't speak his language. He knew a few fractured parts of the dark elven tongue, but had no inclination to try and speak it. "The light burns. You cannot return to your darkness. I should put you out of your misery."

The weak, pathetic creature raised its hands as he raised his swords, shouting something in its natural tongue which might have been '_Please_!' – but Reynald didn't think they had that word in drow.

The head rolled through the sand, skimming further when Reynald kicked it irritably.

He turned back to his array of soldiers. Anomen was back with the main body of the cavalry, charging in to support the infantry in the middle, but Reynald hadn't wanted to receive the scraps from anyone else's fight. Here, there was fresh blood. Quite literally.

"Grab all the supplies you can! Our own are low, and these dregs shan't need them!" he ordered, turning around and raising his white hood over his head to push back the sun on the back of his neck.

It wasn't enough. Just that one pathetic drow wasn't enough. His blood was singing in his veins, and he thought he might pass out if he didn't satisfy this hunger within him. Not for food, but for death.

These drow, they made him sick. Marching up here with nothing but killing in mind, laying waste to the land. They were a blight upon this world, and it was his duty to see them gone. Left dehydrated and invalid by the sun or not, they were still drow, and still needed to be eliminated.

Reynald strode over towards the biggest tent, sword still unsheathed, and pushed back the heavy canvas to step into the welcome shade.

What he saw was what he'd expected – a medical centre. Mostly drow left weak and weary from the sun, a few injured that had made it back from the scene of battle. Harrian had indeed been wise to take this battle to them at the height of the sun's fury, and Sendai had indeed been crazed to drag drow into the desert.

Reynald glanced back out of the tent, and raised a hand to summon a few soldiers, who all headed over obligingly. Most of the drow had clearly seen them, but very few of them seemed even halfway capable of reacting with more than frightened eyes.

The fallen paladin took in the sight for a few long moments, then glanced back at his men. "These are still drow. Wipe them out. Put them out of their misery. Should they recover, they'll be a threat to these lands."

It was only then that he noticed the small human stumbling over towards him from the rows of drow, and as he glanced around quickly he realised that there were more of them, mostly doing some tending to the drow. Slaves, they had to be.

"Thank you, sir!" the nearest one declared, falling to his knees and grabbing Reynald's boot. "It's been too long since these foul creatures captured me… may the Gods bless you for this!"

Reynald looked down at him, taking a step back. "The Gods decided a long time ago that I wasn't worth their attention," he said quietly, then glanced up. "Men? Kill the collaborators, too. They've been stained with the ways of the drow."

Then the Blade of Searing struck downwards.

The sand whipped up into the air, stinging into the eyes of the drow Harrian had been facing with almost no encouragement, making his enemy stumble back and allowing him to run them through without ceremony.

_Followers of the unnatural, in Silvanus' name I shall cleanse you!_

The voices in his head had fallen into nothing more than a constant blur now, present and loud but a backdrop of his own fury, his own desire for death. All around him, his soldiers were fighting and killing with a revel that he shared. The battle was all but won, and only a few pockets of resistance at the now-surrounded centre of what had once been Sendai's army still stood.

Five metres away from Harrian, a young man was running through an enemy who had fallen onto his knees and begged for mercy in surrender. Even over the roar of battle, he could hear and see Anomen, shining with a holy light that seemed to flatten the drow with every swing of his mace. A tall soldier on their side had physically wrestled what was most likely the new army general off a horse and had finished her with a few sharp thuds from the hilt of his sword. Three enemies were trapped in a whirling of air above the fight as Imoen dealt with them before tossing their useless bodies back down to the ground.

And behind him, he left Jaheira to play with the remainders of the infantry the right-flank of the cavalry had hit.

It was impressive how fast men could run when insects of the desert had swarmed in to answer druidic summons. Locusts, flies, beetles… more carrion insects than Harrian could even name… they were all there, hurtling in from the skies at Jaheira's command, swarming at the army of Sendai. They covered men, drow, and giants alike, filling eyes, nostrils, and mouths, choking them, suffocating them, drowning them. One by one, they gnawed at flesh, swarm by swarm they swallowed men. Perhaps one or two on their own side had also been caught in the deluge, but the druid had not feared to unleash her powers upon their enemies.

Harrian himself was trapped in a seemingly endless routine of killing, moving, stabbing, slashing, and slaying. He ran through one drow still determined to go down fighting, cleft in twain a man turning to flee, and struck downwards at a fallen Fire Giant who had still tried vainly to lash out at his attackers.

Then he turned around, twin swords upraised, looking for the next foe…

…and found none.

As quickly as the fight had been started, it had ended.

The realisation seeping into his brain slowly lifted the red mist upon his vision, showing the sun hanging low in the west, the still-numerous members of his army, and the absolute massacre that they had just committed.

There had been killing for many hours. But the true battle had ended a long time ago.

Historians would remember this fight as a huge success. A tactical victory; a struggle between equal numbers on even footing resolved by cunning generals. Hardly a quarter of Harrian's men had, it would later be shown, perished in the battle. Hardly any of what had been Sendai's army lived to tell the tale.

When they had tried to run, they had been hunted. When they had tried to yield, they had been cut down. When they had been injured, they had been finished. And where they had lain helpless, they then lay dead.

The voices of his men were fading with the red mist, but even as they skittered out of his consciousness he was still keenly aware of bloodlust turning to horror.

There was a long moment as Harrian did his best to keep his stomach under control, leaning down to reach for a cloth from one of the fallen drow and wiping his blades clean with it. It was a harsh, insensitive gesture, but a familiar one from which he drew strength enough to not vomit or scream.

He was aware of muttering around him; muttering that he knew only too well. Right then, it was confusion and dread. It would not take too long before it became resentment, and then, outright blame. Anger would be the final step, and he didn't want to be around for that.

Jaheira stepped up beside him, and he felt his stomach shake more as he saw the expression on her face. Gone was any mask of control, any dispassionate visage. Her eyes showed horror, and her mouth hung open a little bit with disbelief.

"Harrian… what happened?"

He couldn't answer her for a few long moments, and even when he found his voice he was loath to offer his opinion. The response came from over his shoulder a few seconds later, and he turned around to face Sarevok as the big warrior approached, Imoen ashen-faced and leaning on his arm.

"Bhaal happened." Sarevok seemed grim rather than haunted compared to those around him. "I could hear him. I could see him. I could smell him. He was with more than just his Children today."

"That's…" Any ideas of how to dismiss the suggestion fell the moment they appeared. The truth was a vicious one. "I didn't do it." The simple, childish denial of blame brought both shame and strength.

"What did, then?"

They looked around as there were hoof beats, and Reynald trotted up, still astride his horse, wearing a rather similar expression to the one he had worn the night after they had first met Asrael in the Tethyrian village – but his eyes were yet emptier. "Murder spoke to us. You're the Child of Murder, Harrian. You tell us what happened." His voice was hard, accusing.

"I didn't…"

"We didn't sign up for none of this." He turned around to see a small mob of his soldiers picking their way over the bodies towards them. They had progressed, he saw, to resentment. The reactions of those affected by the Children of Bhaal were very easily charted. "Freedom? A bloody massacre, more like."

Anomen seemed to have retrieved his horse by the time he trotted over. He looked bone-weary, but, besides Sarevok, the most stable of the others. Around them, soldiers still milled, and the muttering grew a little louder. Realisation of what had happened was seeping in, and with it, the blame was building up.

"Perhaps we should be returning to Amkethran," Anomen said quickly.

"But the battle… these men…" Harrian's voice trailed off.

Sarevok looked over at Anomen. "The cleric speaks true." He stepped forwards, his voice dropping. "There are men who have just tasted murder and found it bitter. It will be a matter of minutes before they blame you. Do you wish to be their second taste of brutal death?"

"I didn't… this wasn't…" Harrian couldn't quite find his feet responding. Bodies still lay all around, motionless, butchered. Deaths which hadn't had to happen, even in the middle of a battle. He had to quietly concede that this was, indeed, no fight for freedom.

"My good friends!" A light, and yet urgent voice from behind them prompted them to turn around and see Haer'Dalis approaching them, leading three horses. Behind him, a young boy Harrian recognised as one of Beran's squires held an additional too, but the youth looked scared enough to bolt at any moment. "I took the liberty of packing your affairs as I heard how the battle was… proceeding…"

In that moment, Harrian didn't think he'd ever been as grateful towards anyone as he was towards Haer'Dalis in that moment. "Perhaps Amkethran does wait for us," he said, nodding his head and rapidly grabbing the reins horse that had what he recognised as his own affairs packed in the saddlebags.

And as they rapidly seized mounts, and unanimously decided that leaving the scene of battle – or the scene of the crime? – would be the best way forwards, none of them looked back. The soldiers milled about the bodies they had slaughtered, the warriors they had slain and the invalid and slaves they had murdered. Not all would instantly place blame at the feet of the Son of Bhaal for the bloodlust that had afflicted them in battle.

But, perhaps, it would not be wisest for the party to wait until that happened, and even as the seven horsemen began to rapidly hurtle away from the battleground, Harrian could see behind him the crossbows and the swords and the pikes that would probably await them should they dare to return.


	53. Chapter LIII: Wild Echoes Flying

**Chapter LIII: Wild Echoes Flying**

They had made enough progress that they were only a few hours out from Amkethran when they finally stopped for the night. They had set up camp with hardly any talking, Anomen had begun to cook dinner with the supplies Haer'Dalis had 'claimed' from the army's reserves, and Harrian had spent more time than probably necessary tending to the horses, away from the others.

Nobody spoke as the food was eaten. Harrian had emerged from the shadows to take a bowl of slop cooked by Anomen, and they had all sat about the camp fire in a grim, unsociable silence. Once the dinner was finally over, Haer'Dalis had, for possibly the first time, displayed a degree of tact. His lute had come out, and although there were no songs, the music had at least broken the horribly tight, choking tension settled upon them.

It wasn't enough, but it put off anybody breaking until Harrian finally stood up, stretched, and, without looking at anyone, declared, "I'm going to bed."

There was silence again, but only for a moment as Reynald got to his feet. "Very well," the fallen paladin said at last, frowning slightly. "But I have a suggestion to make. Considering the events of today, and yesterday."

Nobody needed to ask about the truth of the day before.

Harrian blinked, not meeting Reynald's gaze. "You can make a suggestion," he said falteringly.

"You're too kind," Reynald answered, his voice slightly strained. Haer'Dalis began to play a little louder. "But perhaps I chose my words poorly. This is slightly more than a suggestion."

Yet another pause as Harrian blinked. "Yes? What is it?"

Reynald hesitated for a moment, then turned away to briefly head over to his pack, at that point in time resting next to his equipment just outside his tent. Haer'Dalis played on as Reynald shuffled around in his bag before finally emerged with a length of rope. "I think you should be tied up when you go to bed."

Haer'Dalis's fingers hit the wrong strings, and a painful, misplaced chord rang across the camp site. None of the others dared speak up as Harrian and Reynald stared at each other seriously and grimly for long moments.

Then, finally, Harrian let out a short bark of a laugh, and waved a hand dismissively. "I'm flattered, Reynald, but I really don't think of you in that…"

"This isn't a _joke_!"

He'd never raised his voice to any of them before. Never spoken with anything other than well-measured, long-contemplated control. So for Reynald's voice to ring out so loudly across the camp site brought a flinch from all, and killed the smile on Harrian's face.

Haer'Dalis, slowly, falteringly, began to play his lute again.

"Then it's a damn good bit of stupidity," Harrian said, his voice catching.

"It's necessary." Reynald stepped forward, his whole body taut. "After what happened today? And yesterday? Bhaal running rampant within your head and without? I – don't – trust – you. I don't want to try and sleep at night with the possibility there that you might wake up and decide to kill us all."

Anomen stood slowly. "I think you might be overreacting…"

"Do you?" Reynald whirled to face him. "Do you honestly think that, or are you just too damn afraid to do something about this? Do you _remember _what happened today? Do you remember what the lot of us _did _today?"

"Yes, but it…"

"It was _Bhaal_, you insipid, blindly-loyal, fool! You might not want to recognise the truth of this God of Murder because then you'd have to acknowledge that it might affect _her_ as well, but that doesn't make it any less real!" Reynald ranted, waving a hand at Imoen, who looked rather as if she'd prefer to be somewhere else. "And today, Bhaal drove us to a victory and a massacre."

Harrian's eyes darkened. "I find it amusing that you, Reynald, seem to be the quickest to pin our actions today on Bhaal. After all, you're the only one amongst us with dark deeds to his name in the past which _cannot _be pinned on a dead God."

Anomen had always known Harrian to be fast, but it seemed even the Bhaalspawn wasn't quick enough for Reynald's retaliation. There was just a brief flash of movement from the tall warrior, a thump of the sound of flesh on flesh, and Harrian fell to the ground, clutching his jaw.

"Don't you _ever _say anything like that _again_!" Reynald snarled, standing over Harrian, fist clenched.

Sarevok stood now, stepping forward to grab the livid fallen paladin by the shoulder, hauling him back. "Enough! Fighting will solve nothing here!" his deep voice boomed across the camp site. Haer'Dalis was playing louder and faster now, in a southern dancing song that would, under other circumstances, have them instinctively up and dancing jigs.

Reynald pulled away from Sarevok, and began to pace irritably in the background as the huge warrior looked at them all. "I, alone of all of us, did not have Bhaal tempting me today. I can only imagine why not, though perhaps it would be because he has already succeeded at destroying me completely; why bother again?" There was a grim, dark humour to his words and his expression. "But I saw it all today. I heard it, somewhat. Heard enough to know that it was Bhaal driving the army, not our own, personal demons."

"Exactly as I said. Harrian, you're tumbling faster and faster here, and I don't _trust _you," Reynald mumbled from behind Sarevok.

Harrian had clambered to his feet by now, and gave Jaheira, Imoen, and Anomen slightly frantic glances which none of them could return. "Then leave!" he snapped at Reynald. "I didn't _ask _you to come along! This is _my _quest, _my _destiny! If you don't like it, you're free to go!"

"I think most of us are here right now to try and help you through this so that it ends… and to watch you so you don't hurt anyone else."

Harrian froze as Imoen spoke, turning to face her numbly. He had never looked more lost than he did in that moment. "I… what about you?" There was a pause, and his voice found more strength. "Who's to say that you won't do anything? Why is nobody watching you?" He stepped back, waving a hand at Imoen and facing Reynald and Anomen. "Why the hell don't you get worried that she's going to go off the rails?"

"Because she hasn't hurt any of us," Anomen said quietly, miserably, looking down. "You have."

Again, Harrian froze, staring at Anomen with disbelief. "You…" His expression darkened. "What, did you keep that one in your pocket until you had to use it against me?" His words were resentful, but weak, and it was clear not even he believed them.

"I had hoped, Harrian, that you would be more vigilant after what happened yesterday. I foolishly believed that we could watch you, but that you might be more capable of watching yourself. I…" Anomen's voice trailed off, and he finally met his friend's gaze. "I didn't want to believe that it could be… be this bad."

Haer'Dalis's music had slowed down now, descending into a leisurely, cheerful ballad.

"But today, I think we all saw that we can't get complacent," Imoen said quietly. "We all felt Bhaal today. And… and we know, now, how impossible it is to just _trust _that he won't grab hold of you… or me." Her expression was regretful as Harrian gave her a brief, questioning look.

"Tomorrow, we'll kill Balthazar," Sarevok said grimly. "The last of the Five, the sole remaining member of the Eight. And then… then, I suppose, it will be time for destiny."

"I'm with you until the end, Harrian," Reynald said, looking up from where he'd been glaring off to the horizon. "But until this end comes, I can't trust you." He paused, frowning. "Sorry, my friend. I phrased that badly. I can't trust Bhaal. And I don't trust you to fight him off. Not after today. Not if you can have that effect on thousands of men. Not if you can… not if you can do that to us. When this is over, at the end of all things, when Bhaal may be defeated as the Prophecies suggest he will be and this may all be over… then I will trust you fully."

"Until then, it might be wise if we didn't…" Anomen stopped, his voice trailing off as he searched for the words.

"Leave you to your own devices." Sarevok folded his arms across his chest.

"Stick me in a cage and only let me out when you need something killing," Harrian said bitterly. But the defensive anger, the fury fuelled by disbelief and denial, was fading. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen," he mumbled at last, weakly.

"We know." Anomen stood up, stepping forward. "But it did."

Harrian frowned, his gaze turning back towards the darkness, Amkethran surely lying somewhere leagues across the desert. "If you don't mind, I'm going for a walk. Feel free to stab me if I turn up back here ranting about death," he said, his voice sounding empty as, finally, his legs found strength and he headed towards the perimeter of the camp, stumbling a little.

Once he had disappeared into the darkness, Reynald turned to face the two party members who had not yet spoken. "Neither of you had anything to add to the situation?"

Haer'Dalis glanced up, still playing. "I have not been present for half of the exciting drama that has taken place over the last tenday, my hound," he said lightly. "It would be poor of me to judge without knowledge."

Jaheira lifted her eyes to meet Reynald's questioning gaze. "I had nothing to say for public ears that you had not already covered," she said wearily, getting to her feet. "The rest… now I must say it alone."

"He'll probably be with the horses," Imoen muttered, and Jaheira nodded slowly as she set out in Harrian's wake, slowly with hesitation but firm in purpose.

Harrian was, indeed, lurking by where their mounts had been tethered for the night, and were now drinking from the ample water supply they had brought with them. "Should have known you'd have something to say for yourself soon enough," he murmured, stepping out from the shadows of the horses to face her, little more than a dark shape in the gloom of night, away from the illuminating camp fire.

"I think there is much we should discuss that I would prefer the others were not completely privy to," Jaheira said wryly, walking over to him with a note of hesitation.

Harrian nodded, looking resigned. "Go on, then." He frowned at her look of brief confusion. "Say what you have to say. Condemn me. Confirm me as a monster you cannot bear to be around. Mark me as a child of murder beyond help."

"You're not beyond help," Jaheira said instinctively, sharply, looking up at him. "And once this is all over… however it may end… you'll be free of Bhaal. It has to be so. The Prophecies say so."

"Unless I help him rise to power," Harrian muttered.

"I don't believe that. You're a _good man_, Harrian…" Jaheira's voice trailed off, and she glanced away. "But now I understand how Bhaal affects you, after today. I had thought… perhaps… that it was a transformation. That you took leave of your senses." Finally, grudgingly, she met his gaze. "I see now that all Bhaal does is take the darkness within us and bring it to the surface. He tells us whatever he needs to for us to listen to the shadows of our soul. And then those shadows win."

Harrian didn't say anything, only looked away, nodding slightly.

"And I don't trust, like the others, that you can keep him under control any more. The essence _is _stronger in you, now Sendai and Abazigal are dead. It's been mounting up, and now I don't think you can halfway control it." Jaheira closed her eyes. "And I don't trust that you won't influence us any more. If you are without us… if you don't have the rest of us to stop you, keep you in line, then you may truly end up lost. And us along with you."

"Sarevok was unaffected," was all Harrian could mumble weakly, in the tone of a man who knows the battle is already lost.

"I know. And that is why I am here. The men today… believed in you, entirely. They were willing to follow you to the Hells. The party has already done that." Jaheira gave a sad, humourless smile. "Except for Sarevok. Perhaps it was for his connection to Bhaal already, perhaps it is because his soul is… different." Her lip curled slightly at the delicately chosen word. "Or perhaps it is because he is here more for curiosity than loyalty. So you do not have the same sway over him."

Harrian straightened up, looking her in the eye. "So what, exactly, are you saying?" he asked, knowing the answer.

She didn't answer for a long moment, only met his gaze before turning away. "I am sorry that it is not just for hope of maintaining some control that I'm pushing you away. I wish it were just so I could keep a level head when everyone turns to madness, so as to keep you and the others safe." Jaheira said quietly. "But it is not just that. I admit it… I am afraid." There was a pause, a pause broken only by the music of Haer'Dalis from the camp site wafting over softly in the wind. "And you never made me feel afraid before today."

Harrian stared after her as she began to walk away, his knees going weak as he could feel her slipping out of his grasp. He took a tentative step forwards, desperation in his voice when he finally called out. "No… no. Jaheira, you can't… I _need _you! I need you to be more than just… _around_, I need you…"

She didn't stop walking.

"Please!" His voice caught, but his legs refused to let him follow her. "I love you…"

This time, Jaheira did stop, pausing briefly to glance over her shoulder, her expression sad. "I know," she said ruefully. "But love cannot change a thing."

And with those words, she stepped back into the light of the camp site, where the others were now pretending to be light of mood with Haer'Dalis' music, where the inevitable fights of the following days were being ignored, and leaving Harrian behind in the darkness with a gap in his soul.


	54. Chapter LIV: Equilibrium

**Chapter LIV: Equilibrium**

"Perhaps I should improve the security of my monastery. I had suspected that fool Faheed held a key… maybe I should have had him rounded up with the last arrests."

The Bhaalspawn monk Balthazar had looked supremely unsurprised when the party had stumbled into the chamber from the stairway that had lead up from the crypts of Amkethran, and for the first time Harrian realised that their arrival might not have been as entirely stealthy as he had assumed it would be.

The monastery was, as he had imagined, decorated simply, though this did not undermine the truly grand architecture of the building. Balthazar's audience chamber, where they had finally found themselves, was a huge, grand room, with a tall ceiling and a worrying number of pillars Harrian fancied he could see monks lurking behind.

Balthazar himself stood at the top of a small stairwell leading up to the simple, but imposing seat – was throne the right word, Harrian wondered? – of the head monk.

"A bit late for that, Balthazar." Harrian stepped forward, towards the Bhaalspawn, keenly keeping an eye on the movement lurking in the shadows of the chamber and reassured that the other six were as well. "Your secret's out. I _know _you were working with Abazigal and Sendai. I know you're the last member of the Five."

Balthazar raised an eyebrow, his expression impassive as he slowly began to descend the stairs. Harrian wished he could draw his sword without kicking off a fight straight away; he still needed answers. "It may seem that way, truly." Balthazar nodded. "But, in reality, I have been plotting their demise ever since Melissan recruited me into the Five."

There was a slight twitch of surprise from the others, and Harrian fought to keep his expression calm. "Melissan?"

"Indeed." Balthazar seemed almost amused at the surprise he had caused. "Melissan recognized the taint of Bhaal within me, just as she recognized it in Sendai, Abazigal, Yaga-Shura, and Illasera." His eyes narrowed slightly, and he regarded Harrian evaluatingly. "Just as she recognized it in you."

Harrian blinked. "And… if you wanted to wipe out the Five, why did you _join_?" He was more confused than challenging, at this point.

Balthazar shrugged. "Melissan lured me with promises of power and glory, but I followed her for a different reason. Only by joining the Five could I discover who the others were – and plot their demise."

"And you used us to get rid of them?" Imoen asked, stepping forwards, breaking the party's defensive formation as curiosity overrode safety. "Pointed us in the direction of your so-called allies so they could be wiped out without breaking your cover?"

Balthazar nodded, almost approvingly. "Well, it is not as if I was the only one to be plotting the demise of my allies. We all knew we would stand more of a chance working together and winning by deception than an outright offensive. It was not an ingenious ruse on my part."

"And Melissan. What about her?" Jaheira said, though she was still standing with her back to the conversation, in the small circle the party had formed to keep an eye on the monks lurking in the shadows. "Why would she gather the Five only to plot their destruction? If she wanted you removed as threats to the Realms, then why would she give you such strength of unity?"

"I know not," Balthazar admitted. "But ultimately, she and I both have what we want. Thanks to you, Harrian, the rest of the Five are dead. Though I do not doubt that I will have to deal with Melissan on my own terms, now."

"And once we're dead you can get around to resurrecting a dead God. Or do you want Bhaal's power for yourself? It's hard to keep track of which ambitions people follow," Harrian said, his voice wry.

Balthazar again looked surprised. "I have no such designs. Bhaal's taint is an evil blight upon this world. Why should I wish to bring the Lord of Murder back into existence? You know, only too well, of the chaos he can wreak." He nodded slowly. "Yes, although you were speedy indeed, word has already reached me of the battle in the desert. Of what Bhaal did there."

"So how is killing me going to stop Bhaal from coming back? We should be working together, if you're telling the truth, finding out what Melissan's done!" Harrian snapped, his hand going down to his sword hilt instinctively.

"Once all the Children of Bhaal are exterminated, Harrian, the Realms will be wiped clean of his tainted existence. When I know that I am the last, I shall perform a ritual suicide. Bhaal's taint shall be locked away forever, and his evil shall die with me, never to return." Balthazar finally looked somewhat sympathetic. "This is for the good of the Realms."

Harrian stared in disbelief. "You're asking me to voluntarily give myself up, allow myself to just be killed?"

"For the good of the Realms," Balthazar repeated. "You know what Bhaal can do. You've seen what he has done. I am truly certain that the last of the Bhaalspawn alive stand only in this room. We can lock the taint away forever, keep the God of Murder _truly _dead. It is a sacrifice that could safe Toril!"

Imoen shifted a little. "Some of your monks are Bhaalspawn," she said. It wasn't a question.

Balthazar nodded. "Before I truly understood the true depths of the Lord of Murder's evil, I travelled to find youths imbued with his taint. I thought I could raise them free of their father's sway. We are more controlled men than most Bhaalspawn, but I realised before long that this would not be a universal solution. We are all willing to die so that Bhaal will be locked away."

Harrian stared at the floor. "If you kill me… kill Imoen… kill your monks… and you then commit the ritual suicide… Bhaal will be gone forever?" he mumbled. Imoen looked slightly sick, but didn't argue.

Balthazar stepped over. "A sacrifice for the realms," he said quietly, sympathetically. "You have seen what evil Bhaal has been doing. You yourself have struggled for control. Do you know how you would stop Bhaal, once you killed me?"

"No," Harrian admitted. "I just knew that you were one of the Five and so needed to die."

"Don't listen to him," Sarevok said at last, his expression stony, glancing around with only a mild concern as ten monks stepped out of the shadows and approached, subtly encircling them all. "He's not just one of the Five, he's one of the Eight. This isn't how the Prophecy has decreed the Bhaalspawn Saga would be resolved."

"Screw the Prophecies! We can end it all here, now!"

"You want to die, Harrian?" Anomen asked dubiously. "Imoen?"

Imoen glanced away. "I don't want to die. But… it's inevitable… is this a way to solve it?"

Sarevok scowled, glaring at Harrian. "You are being a coward. This is the easy way out so you do not have to battle through Bhaal's taint and end this a better way. You get your heroic sacrifice, you get to save the Realms, and you don't have to live." He looked at the approaching monks. "You should not be throwing life away so carelessly."

The monk approaching Sarevok hardly had time to react as the huge warrior reached up to grab his greatsword, swinging it over his back and bringing it down in a two-handed blow that struck the young man in the shoulder, splitting him in two.

And then the idea of a peaceful resolution by collective suicide ended.

Harrian, too, was not quick enough to react as Balthazar retaliated against Sarevok's attack. The Bhaalspawn monk lashed out instantly with an open palm that struck Harrian in the chest, and he felt the wind get knocked out of him as he was sent flying backwards across the chamber, landing flat on his back on the polished stone floor with a thump.

The monks were unarmed, but deadly fast with their hands and their feet. Jaheira found herself locked into an unending pattern with the opponent she was facing, every blow she aimed at him with her scimitars being deflected with a whack on the flat of the blade, or simply dodged. Next to her, Reynald was in a defensive mode, having not even had time to draw his sword before a pair of monks had set upon him, and he found himself having to knock aside fists and feet with the gauntlets, though it was not a process he was having a huge amount of success with.

Imoen, too, had been forced to draw her short sword in the close range of this fight, and was engaging a youthful monk faster than any of his peers in a struggle that consisted mostly of both of them moving like blurs to avoid the blows of each other. Behind her, Sarevok was having less luck with his fighting style relying more on brute strength than speed, and the monk he had engaged in combat was effectively running circles around him as he swung his heavy blade ineffectively. Anomen, too, was being forced to use the advantage that was a shield to block incoming blows from feet and hands, on the defensive rather than fighting back.

Harrian was struggling to regain his breath as he took in all of this, and with the fire in his ribs as his lungs filled up each time with life-giving air, he had to recognise the fact that something was broken. His hand came down to one of the healing potions at his belt, which he gulped down painfully but gratefully, before taking in the rest of the scene.

He had to reason, as he clambered to his feet, that the only one of the party who was displaying any kind of real success against these opponents was Haer'Dalis. The remaining four monks had encircled the bard, who was standing with both Chaos and Entropy drawn, moving like a blur as he whirled around to deflect every incoming blow. No hit was making it through his wall of blades, and every now and again he would lash out to strike one of the opponents, usually only with a light injury, but clearly doing them more damage than they were doing him.

Harrian couldn't remember Haer'Dalis ever fighting like that before. But Balthazar didn't give him time to consider this as the monk leapt over the rest of the fighting to land before Harrian, striking out with his fist again in a blow that the Bhaalspawn thief only just had time to dodge.

The Equaliser came out and into his hand, and Harrian took a few steps back to win space, knowing he would have the reach of his blade if he kept Balthazar at bay. His left hand came beside his back, he straightened up, and lifted his sword slightly, in a classic duellist pose.

The fighting from there was fast and furious, and primarily defensive on Harrian's part. Balthazar couldn't hurt him provided he kept the reach of his blade, but should the monk get past this protective perimeter he would be able to land devastating blows Harrian would be unable to deflect.

Reynald was already down, having been beaten into submission by his two opponents, but Jaheira had finally despatched hers, and was now faring far better against the two monks who had defeated the fallen paladin.

Meanwhile, Anomen and Sarevok had formed a twosome of brute strength, Anomen defending against blows as Sarevok lashed out. As Harrian spared them a glance, the two of them exchanged a brief look before charging one monk, their collective bulk slamming into the rather small and wiry young man who had been unable to dodge a combined weight of almost four hundred pounds, and was beaten into submission the moment they had been able to physically grasp him.

Imoen's lightning-fast fight against the young monk who _had _to be another 'lesser' Bhaalspawn was still ongoing, her blade giving her reach but his training giving him speed. But finally there was Haer'Dalis, still a whirling defensive frenzy of swords. One of his opponents was already down on the floor, and this only meant that the bard could focus his attention far more easily upon the remaining three monks, giving back as many blows as they were trying to hit him with.

Harrian was in something of a stale-mate against Balthazar, maintaining his defence and keeping the monk at bay, but unable to land a single blow himself – every time he struck at the other Bhaalspawn, he either dodged quickly or knocked the attack to one side with a tap to the flat of the blade, and tried to break through the defences.

Jaheira had finally had a chance to get some spells off, and as her skin darkened and grew more solid with nature's aid, she threw herself almost recklessly at one of her monk opponents, shrugging off all of his blows and able to strike him down with an attack that would have been almost suicidal without magical assistance.

Anomen and Sarevok were fending off their last opponent with a primarily defensive stance, but Haer'Dalis was now only one against two, his twin blades speckled with flecks of blood. And, behind them all, was Imoen, still locked in the fight against her Bhaalspawn opponent.

Balthazar froze when that fight was suddenly ended with an inexplicably fast slash from Imoen that struck her opponent in the chest. The wound was light, but blood was drawn, and it sent the monk staggering for a moment – long enough for Imoen to run the young man through.

Harrian felt as if someone had punched him in the gut, and from glances it looked as if Balthazar and Imoen felt the same. The head monk stumbled before him, his eyes wide, before he fixed Harrian with a desperate glare. "No! That was… the last of the children…"

"What? _We're _still here!" Harrian snapped, faltering with surprise for a moment.

Not a very long moment, it transpired, as Anomen and Sarevok appeared almost simultaneously behind the Bhaalspawn monk. A greatsword swung across at chest height, and a huge mace came crashing down, aiming at a skull. Both blows were strong and fast enough that only dust hit the ground.

The fight had suddenly gone from tough and well-matched to over, in a matter of seconds.

Harrian spat a curse. "Damn it! There were still… answers!" he snapped, more instinctively and out of frustration than real anger.

Anomen took a step back, looking slightly tentative. "Should we have left you to discuss in the middle of a battle?"

Harrian paused, frowning. "No, I… sorry." He sighed. "Thank you. I only…" But the sentence was left unfinished as, again, he found himself pitted into deep, familiar blackness.


	55. Chapter LV: BlackHearted

**Chapter LV: Black-Hearted**

"The greatest alliance of the Bhaalspawn, the Five, have been destroyed, godchild. Nearly all of Bhaal's essence has returned to its source… your journey is nearly complete."

Harrian looked up as the darkness faded to show the shining light of the Solar before him, standing in the centre of the plane of Bhaal. "If all of his essence is returning to its source, doesn't that mean he's being resurrected? And doesn't this mean that, as the last of the Eight, I have to now stop him?"

"The dead god Bhaal has _not _been resurrected," the Solar said, shaking its head. "You will need to impart knowledge upon the others for the Prophecies to come to pass… and, so you may best know what you are explaining, the one you know as Melissan will inform you herself."

The air shimmered, as it had before, and the shape of Melissan finally appeared. Only this was not the Melissan Harrian had recognised from before she had left the army after Saradush. She now stood taller, stronger, with her hair darker and in a leather armour that suggested warrior rather than soft-spoken scholar.

"What in the hells?" Harrian blinked.

"I am here," she said, her voice now harsh. "Speak quickly."

"You are here at my sufferance, spirit," said the Solar, not appearing distressed by Melissan's attitude. "You will answer my questions, for here it is I who has the control."

"I am no spirit. You have called a part of a _goddess _to you, and once I discover how you have enchained this part of me so and where I can find you, you will pay dearly," Melissan spat.

"You are no goddess yet," the Solar said, waving a glowing hand to dismiss Harrian's obvious questions. "The Prophecy is not yet complete. And, as I have the control, _you _shall explain yourself."

Melissan looked unhappy, but finally shrugged. "It shall change nothing," she said at last. "So be it. My true name is Amelyssan the Blackhearted, High Matriarch and Greatest Deathstalker of the Lord of Murder, Bhaal. It was I who led all the chants in His holy name! It was I who harboured His avatar when He was cast down amongst the mortals in the Time of Troubles! And it was to me that He entrusted the secrets of His resurrection."

Harrian gaped. "So you did all of this to pool the taint of the Children… and then bring Bhaal back?"

"For Him to be brought back, one of His priests would have to perform the necessary rites for His full power to return. One of His priests would have to hold access to His essence, so that they might return the strength of the taint to Bhaal," Melissan explained.

"And yet… there are only two Bhaalspawn left. And he's not back yet. Are you waiting…?" Harrian looked confused.

Melissan snorted. "Bhaal may fade to dust for all I care. The power… will be mine. The Five eradicated the Children. Illasera hunted far and wide, with Abazigal and Balthazar supporting her. Yaga-Shura and Sendai, on the other hand, defeated those who had gained any power of strength of arms, and when I had brought all the Bhaalspawn I could find to Saradush for 'protection', I unleashed Yaga-Shura upon them and let them be slaughtered.

"Then, finally, there was you. The only Bhaalspawn powerful enough to slay these near-demigods I had created. And now, with it done… I shall ascend. The power of the Lord of Murder shall be mine!"

Harrian's lip curled. "I'm still here," he snapped. "And it's not over that quickly."

"I have most of the essence of Bhaal under my control, fool. The Throne of the Lord of Murder is mine. I am nearly a Goddess. Do you think you have the power to defeat me? Do you think anyone does?" Melissan drew herself up to her full height. "You may face me, if you dare - face me and die. Or you may run, so I can hunt you down like the dog you are, so all the taint will be mine!"

The Solar waved a hand, prompting the spectre of Melissan to fade. "And so you see the end, godchild. There is one last challenge for one of Bhaal's blood to face in this pocket plane, and then… when it is all done, this place must be ended."

"Then I'll grab the others here and face that challenge!" a livid Harrian snapped, beginning to pace.

"You are not yet ready for this final challenge. Preparations must be made." The Solar gave him a long, contemplative look. "The Prophecy still waits for you in Amkethran. Inform your friends of Melissan's betrayal. Tell them to prepare themselves for the challenges that lie ahead of them. And then… then you will be ready for the final stretch of your own journey."

Harrian paused, frowning. "Very well. Send me back to Amkethran."

Light flooded into his vision, and he stumbled briefly from blindness and disorientation as he found himself exactly where he had stood moments before in the centre of Balthazar's chamber. The party were mostly gathered over where Anomen and Jaheira were kneeling over Reynald, both casting spells quickly.

Harrian dashed over. "What happened? I thought he just got punched," he said, blinking without understanding.

"There has been a great deal internal damage from the blows," Jaheira said as a spell finished, and some of the blood running down Reynald's face stopped flowing so freely.

"And a good many broken bones," Anomen concluded in a pause in his own spells, before glancing up at them. "So do try to keep your potions to hand, as our healing is running low."

Imoen glanced over at him. "What did you find out, Harrian? What do we do now? Balthazar's dead…"

"Melissan's a traitor," Harrian said, scowling. As the others paused, staring at him in disbelief - before Anomen and Jaheira returned their attention anxiously to the prone Reynald - he nodded, before telling them all he had been informed of by the Solar and the spectre of Amelyssan the Blackhearted.

Haer'Dalis looked particularly shaken. "I… I spoke with her often in Saradush. She had never reeked of the entropy that others like yourself have done, my raven."

Harrian smiled humourlessly. "Thanks, Haer'Dalis. I always knew I could rely on you to cheer me up." Then he glanced away, taking in the rest of the chamber. "We should leave here as soon as possible. You bet the rest of the monks will come running."

"Once Reynald is back up again," Jaheira agreed, not meeting his gaze as she spoke.

"I wonder if there's a library here as well," Harrian mused. "Balthazar gave me the impression he knows something more than… than we did."

"Abazigal was the scholar," Sarevok pointed out, somewhat scornfully. "What's a monk going to know the dragon didn't?"

"Balthazar wasn't working truly with the Five. He might have had information he didn't want to share," Imoen said, shaking her head as she stepped away from the healers busy at work. "Knowing more can't hurt." Her posture was a little jumpy, and her eyes were constantly evaluating their surroundings, as if looking for future threats.

"Right you are." Harrian gave her a slightly concerned glance, then looked over to one of the staircases leading up in the monastery. The building would be massive, and there were doubtless other monks who would investigate their missing leader and comrades coming along soon. "This may take some subtlety."

And he would usually bring Imoen with him. But she was pacing by now, muttering a little to herself, and still looking somewhat twitchy. She didn't meet his gaze as he gave her a concerned glance, and he thought it perhaps best to leave her to her own devices.

Anomen was unsubtle and dealing with Reynald. Reynald was similarly incapacitated. The notion of Sarevok in his bright emerald armour sneaking was almost laughable. Jaheira was helping Anomen with Reynald.

Harrian looked over at their final companion. "Fancy a walk, Haer'Dalis?"

The bard gave a deep nod. "I imagine I might be able to stretch my wings somewhat, my raven. Is there anything in particular we are in search of?"

"Something that looks important and informative." Harrian nodded to the others and, Haer'Dalis in tow, started towards the stairway in the corner that suggested it might lead to other, more useful parts of the building. "I imagine I'll know it when I see it."

"If the monks did indeed keep extensive records, that is," Haer'Dalis pointed out, his footsteps light as they reached the shade of the winding stone staircase leading upwards. "It may be a challenge to find anything… particular."

"They're monks. Besides, if there's one thing I'm familiar with, it's libraries." Harrian smirked a little, though he kept his hand on his sword-hilt as they headed up the stairs. The voice of the others, below them and in the great hall, had faded away by now, and it was really just Haer'Dalis and him. He wondered if there had been other monks, and if so, where they were - or had Balthazar always made shows of strength to suggest numbers, rather than truly holding those numbers?

The monastery was large and echoing, so the two of them took extra care to not make too much noise as they began their quiet search for the library. As it turned out, a mere two flights of stairs up, they found themselves faced with the large bookshelves of the monastery's library, dark and cool and the same as any other library Harrian had been in before, and he let out a long sigh of contentment.

"Though I sincerely doubt Balthazar would keep sensitive books on the Prophecies just out here for anyone - like us - to find. He should have a study about here. If he was as paranoid as any other Bhaalspawn - and I reckon he was more so - then he'll have the books kept somewhere… safer." Harrian glanced around, though despite his words he had begun to wander somewhat towards the rows, seeming much more relaxed in the shadow of the bookshelves.

Haer'Dalis paused at the end of one row, looking down the long line of shelves towards the far wall, a thoughtful expression on his face. "My raven… do you hear that?" His voice had dropped, and his eyes flickered over to an open door some ten metres away.

Harrian popped his head over a stack of books on the Tethyr Civil War. "Hear what?" Though he, recognising Haer'Dalis' skills, kept his voice low.

Then he heard it - the shuffling of paper and feet, hurried and frantic, coming from the far end of the library.

The two of them dashed forwards as quickly and quietly as possible - but it seemed not quietly enough, for as they approached the open door Haer'Dalis had noticed, a young monk stepped out, clutching a large, heavy book.

There was a long pause as the three of them stared at each other. The monk looked more surprised than anything at the appearance of the bard and Bhaalspawn, but he still clutched the book towards him protectively.

Harrian glanced down at it. Scraps of paper sticking out and a slightly ragged appearance suggested a handwritten volume. The exact sort of thing Balthazar might have used to record his knowledge of the Bhaalspawn.

He smiled broadly. "You want to give us that book, lad?" The words hadn't been meant to sound intimidating, but as he took a step forward with an outstretched hand, he realised that he'd heard that same tone on highwayman offering him a choice between poverty of wealth or poverty of life.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when the young monk bolted, dashing with astounding speed towards the left, heading for another small tower of stairs leading up.

It took Harrian a few long moments to realise what had happened, then he swore and took off in hot pursuit, hardly sparing a glance for Haer'Dalis. "Come _on_, bard!" he cursed, hurtling towards the stairs even as the monk had disappeared.

"My raven…" Haer'Dalis huffed slightly with surprise at the sudden speed, though was hot on Harrian's heels nevertheless. "What makes you think the youth has anything important we might be interested in?"

"Because he's running away with it!" Harrian swore yet again as he thought he saw some sandals disappear around the curve of the rising, twirling stairs. "He clearly doesn't want me to have it! And anything someone here doesn't want me to have… I want to have!"


	56. Chapter LVI: Darkness Rising

**Chapter LVI: Darkness Rising**

"Wait… my raven… wait." Haer'Dalis grabbed Harrian by the sleeve to slow him down as they continued their dash up the stairs. "You can see, there are no more floors up ahead. He is headed for the roof - we will have him cornered once he is there. We do not need to dash up and emerge all out of breath."

"Right… you're right." Harrian stopped, taking a few deep breaths. "But what's he running off to a dead-end for? That's just ridiculous. He might have something planned." He continued to walk up the steps, drawing the Daystar.

"True, but we did take the youth by surprise. I imagine he fled by whichever route was most obvious. But we should indeed be ready." Haer'Dalis had Chaos and Entropy in his hands as he followed Harrian on the way up.

As Harrian gingerly emerged from the alcove of the staircase tower onto the large, flat, sandy roof of the monastery, the monk's fist coming in from the side hit him in the face probably before the late-afternoon sunlight even did.

He hit the sandy floor with a thud, the Daystar sent spinning out of his grasp instantly, but hardly had time for the air to choke out of his lungs before a well-placed kick in his stomach sent him folding up with another groan.

It seemed this young monk had mostly been running to fight them on his own terms.

Haer'Dalis lunged forward, twin blades spinning defensively to make the monk think twice about trying to punch the bard, but every swing he attempted at his young opponent was ducked or dodged, despite the tiefling's impressive speed.

Harrian could only lie there, gasping for breath for a few long moments to recover his senses and some control. As his vision slowly stopped spinning, he rolled over unsteadily and achingly, and gingerly reached out for his sword, crawling towards where it lay a few feet away.

Then a sandal slammed down on the blade of the Daystar even as his hand curled around the hilt, and the monk - moving so fast in conjunction with Haer'Dalis that the two of them almost seemed to be dancing rather than fighting - spun around with a blow that hit Harrian on the temple and knocked him back down again.

Again the world span before him, and stars exploded in front of his eyes. His head struck the sandstone, hard, and the desire to just give up, let the darkness tugging at the edge of his vision take him, had to be fought off.

Haer'Dalis was still fighting, now trying to push the monk away from Harrian. The flashing swords meant the monk had to stay in motion to avoid the blades, and so the pair rapidly moved away, across the broad rooftop.

Harrian had to take a few long breaths to regain his bearings, finally irritated with the situation as he took a gulp from his water flask. He, Harrian Corias, hero of too many places he cared to mention and the man who was just on the brink of - he hoped - saving the day, was not going to be beaten by some soppy youth with a few quick punches and some fancy moves.

The monk and Haer'Dalis were approaching the far edge of the rooftop by now, towards the front of the monastery looking down on the town. The bard had been able to stay on the offensive, forcing his young opponent to keep moving back, towards the edge of the roof.

Harrian finally managed to haul himself to his feet, feeling his head spin. He reached over to retrieve the Daystar, his movements feeling heavy. As he bent down to lift the blade, he did notice, out of the corner of his eye, a heavy book lying by the side of the door. That had to have been what the little monk had been carrying with him.

He didn't stop to ponder this, however, as he straightened up to face the fight. Backed towards the edge, the monk had stopped retreating, and was now mostly batting Haer'Dalis' blades to one side - the bard had him mostly on the defensive, and Harrian was sure that, once he joined the fight, it would be over quickly. If he could just knock the monk out, avoid death if at all possible, even better.

But as he strode - running was still a bit much for his spinning head - towards the fight, the young monk clearly noticed him about to join the fray. And instead of batting away the next swing of Haer'Dalis' uncaringly, as he had until then, he simply shifted his weight to one side, causing Entropy to swish harmlessly through the air.

The next moves were almost quicker than Harrian could assimilate; the monk dropped, his feet swinging around under Haer'Dalis, and the next thing he knew it was the youth holding the blade at the neck of the bard, who was flat on his back looking up with the advantage suddenly gone.

"_Wait_!" Harrian lunged forward, the Daystar held now with plans to stop the monk by any means possible - and sparing his life suddenly shooting down the list of priorities.

But before the monk could swing down at the stunned and defenceless bard, there was a hissing heard in the air - and a spray of blood as a green-fletched arrow pierced his neck for a near-instant kill. The monk had hardly time to gurgle weakly before Entropy dropped from his grasp, and he slowly toppling over the edge and down towards the sand below.

Harrian darted forwards towards the edge as Haer'Dalis ruefully got to his feet, the Bhaalspawn's expression one of surprised glee. He wiped some of the spray of blood from his face, and scowled slightly as he resisted the urge to lick the back of his hand before looking down.

"Imoen! You took your time!" he shouted to the small group standing some twenty feet below them, on the sandy ground near the main front doors of the monastery beneath him.

The shape of Imoen, far below, gave an exaggerated waving motion. "The sun was in my eyes!" she hollered back. "And I couldn't choose what arrow to use!"

"No hurry there, my wildflower, clearly! Only my gullet was endangered, nothing too severe!" Haer'Dalis sounded wryly amused as he dusted himself off and sheathed Chaos, giving the body of the monk below them a cautious glance before retrieving Entropy.

Harrian couldn't see Anomen's face from there, but his posture suggested impatience. "We need to take Reynald back to the inn for rest!" And, indeed, although the fallen paladin was still upright, he was leaning heavily on Sarevok. "Did you find anything?"

"Er… hang on!" Harrian turned to Haer'Dalis. "What was that book?"

Haer'Dalis shrugged. "It is just by the door. I'll go… fetch it, my raven."

Harrian nodded, returning his gaze to the view before him as the tiefling headed off. Back at Candlekeep, he had always enjoyed climbing to the top of the keep, or the ramparts of protection, and watch the sea as it stretched as far as the eye could see - or the lush greenery beyond the walls, promising adventure. Heights had always intoxicated rather than scared him, and after the heavy days before and promise of heavier days to come, he allowed himself a small moment to admire the view, taking a deep, contented breath.

"It really is quite something, isn't it," he commented as he heard Haer'Dalis' footsteps approaching from behind. "The view. We never do stop to stand and stare at the world around us enough." Harrian shook his head, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he continued to take in the desert view. "What's the book?"

There was a small rustling of pages from behind him as Haer'Dalis presumably checked. "'_The Lords of Waterdeep_'. I am sorry, my raven."

Harrian shrugged, his gaze still on the horizon. "Ah, well. I suppose the boy was just trying to lure us somewhere he could beat us. I'm sure there's something in the library, and…"

"No, my raven." Haer'Dalis sounded, for one of the first times ever, deeply serious. And, almost… was it… regretful? "You do not understand. I am _sorry_."

Harrian frowned. "For what?"

Then Chaos exploded through his chest.

Pain, insane pain, unlike anything he'd ever known ran through him, combined with a shock that sent him rigid. All he could do for the long, painful moments as the blood trickled out of him, through the gaping wound that suddenly made even _thinking _insanely agonising, was stare down at the sword blade, crimson with his own blood, sticking out of him.

Then Haer'Dalis' voice, close and murmuring in his ear. "Know peace, my raven." And, indeed, he sounded deeply sincere - though Harrian could hardly process this at that time.

"…what?" But speaking hurt even more, and his voice sounded more like a croak even to his own ears - which were now filled with an odd noise of the roaring of air.

Then pain, again, and freedom, and a shove forward - then he was falling, plummeting towards the ground, the sand and rocks rushing towards him. He had hardly a moment to process the insanely liberating feeling of the air rushing around him before he met the ground.

Then there was more pain, and a sickening _crunch _that he knew had to be his own body, and all he could see was the sky. Attempting to move stopped hurting, though, because he didn't think he _could _move, and he could still feel the blood trickling out of him, painting the sand red with death.

Even through the roaring in his ears he could hear shouts, and screams, and footsteps, but it was all sounding very far away - though he knew the party were only a few feet from him. A shadow fell over him, but he could only look up numbly as Jaheira knelt before him, her eyes wide and shocked and full of more fear than he'd ever seen in her before. He wanted to reach out for her, hold her, tell her everything was alright, but the very notion would have been laughable had it not hurt so much.

"Harrian… you…" Her hands came down, first to the wound in his chest he knew had to be ugly, then up to his face. They were a warrior's hands, a healer's hands, a protector's hands, and now they were shaking seemingly uncontrollably.

"Heh… 'watch your back'…" The pieces came together in his head, but there was a pause as his throat rasped in protest at the attempt to speak, and he coughed. _That _hurt, and it brought up blood too, thick in his mouth. He managed to swallow weakly before trying to speak again, but Jaheira had already straightened up, her attention back on the party.

"_Anomen! I don't have any more healing_!" Her voice was bordering on hysterical now, and her hands shook as she attempted to detach one of the potions from her belt. It was a rather small potion, Harrian mused, for some rather large pain.

"No… it's… alright." Speaking hurt. Definitely. But even though he could feel the darkness creeping in at the edge of his vision, could feel the pain numbing in a way which was more worrying than reassuring, he knew he had to press on. "Don't worry… it'll all… be alright."

He wasn't talking about himself, and he knew she would understand this. That said, he couldn't even _see _how it _might _all be alright - and yet, at the same time, there was a feeling of peace within him letting him _know _that it would be.

Jaheira's eyes ran over him, evaluating, knowing, grieving. "Harrian…" Then she lowered her head to press her lips against his, and even though that, too, hurt like the blazes he wouldn't dream of asking her to stop. "I love you."

The words exploded in his chest like the stab in the back had, only this time more painfully. "Yeah… figured." He would have shrugged, if he could, and he forced himself to smile - that bright, infuriating smile he knew annoyed her to the hells and that he knew he would have to muster one last time.

Because the darkness was creeping in more around the edge of his vision, and he was keenly aware time was short. But despite the pain, despite the blazing impending death, despite the agony with every thought running through his head, he felt… peaceful? He wasn't sure why. It wasn't peace at death. That wasn't something he was particularly looking forward to.

Then realisation blossomed, and the smile softened, genuinely. "Jaheira…" He met her gaze at last, knowing and serene in a sharp contrast with her fear and pain. "I… I can't hear him any more. He's gone."

Then he lay his head back as the darkness rushed in, and Harrian Corias closed his eyes for the last time - free, at last, from the whisperings of the taint of Bhaal.


	57. Chapter LVII: Aftershock

**Chapter LVII: Aftershock**

As Harrian closed his eyes, Jaheira's grip on his hand tightened even as her breath caught in her throat - but only for a moment, as she let out a gasp of surprise. Thinking about it, she shouldn't have been too shocked. It was inevitable, it was what happened to the Bhaalspawn upon death. But she had never even conceived of it happening to Harrian. A thousand fears had plagued her, fears of him losing himself to his taint, fears of him surpassing her and the others in power to the level that he left them all behind. Never fears of his death.

He had seemed charmed, protected by his own strength and Bhaal and destiny. He wasn't _supposed _to die. He was supposed to be the creature of prophecy, the one to make or break the writings of Alaundo. He was supposed to either rise above it all or fall to his taint; her fear had been for the lives of those around him, never for his own life. Not even her worst nightmares had pictured this happening.

So it took her a few long moments to realise that her grip was faltering, and within seconds she was holding nothing more than air and dust as the peaceful expression on his face - the most at peace she had ever seen him - faded, as his entire body did. It had happened to Sarevok two years ago in Baldur's Gate. It had happened to Yaga-Shura and Abazigal and Sendai and now Balthazar.

And, finally, it was inevitably happening to Harrian.

"No…"

Or, at least, that was what she tried to say, but her voice caught and the word came out only as a small, slightly strangled noise. And in the time it had taken her to utter that brief denial, all that lay before her was a pile of ash and a suit of dragon leathers.

Then speaking, moving, or even thinking seemed all entirely impossible to her. Her stomach had wrapped in around itself, her throat was entirely parched, and all she could do was stare at the sand and ash where Harrian's body had been moments ago.

Oddly, the only thing in her mind was a rather selfish thought of how it seemed fate absolutely hated her, with the sense of déjà vu creeping upon her.

"Jaheira!"

Her head snapped around automatically, ready to shout at Reynald for his interruption, the same sorrowful fury filling her that had been there in Irenicus' dungeon so long ago. None of them had been there, though. All had since fallen… Yoshimo, Minsc, now Harrian… only Imoen left…

Imoen…

She was lying prone, flat out on the floor, with a terrified Anomen bent over her, fighting to pull off his gauntlets to tend to her. Reynald was standing upright, looking entirely shaky, but pulling out some of his own, pitifully small healing potions to pass them to the Helmite uncertainly. Sarevok was nowhere in sight.

Instinct took over sorrow, and Jaheira had moved to join Anomen in a moment. Heal first. Tend to the last of her wards. Mourning later.

"What happened?" Her voice sounded normal, even to herself, even though Harrian's remains lay only a few metres away still.

"When Haer'Dalis… she just collapsed," Anomen said disjointedly. "I don't know why."

Jaheira raised a hand to Imoen's brow, frowning. "She's hot. Feverish, almost. I do not think it is just the desert sun." She looked up at Reynald. "Water. Now. And where's Sarevok?" The whereabouts of the big warrior only occurred to her as she realised there was one less source of shade than usual.

"Went after the tiefling." Reynald was, with uncertain hands, slinging his water bottle over his shoulder. It felt warm to the touch when she took it, heated by the sun probably to the extent that it would be hugely distasteful to drink.

"It might just be… uh… shock, the heat…" Anomen didn't sound too convinced.

"We should get her inside. To the inn," Jaheira instructed, nodding. Anomen was clearly too flustered to make solid decisions, his breath coming ragged. She, on the other hand, felt oddly centred and calmed by the need to focus on Imoen, to focus on a task at hand.

"Yes… yes." Anomen nodded, reaching down to gather Imoen's limp form in his arms. She looked so much smaller than Jaheira would ever remember her looking, lying there prone, weak.

_Not twice in one day. I shall not allow it_.

"Curse that tiefling!" Sarevok tore out of the front doors of the monastery with a bellow, his chest heaving. "He is gone. That building is a maze. He could have taken a dozen exits by now."

"We shall worry about Haer'Dalis later," Reynald said, raising a hand. "For now, let us focus on Imoen, and get her to the inn." His eyes flickered briefly over to the small pile of weaponry and leathers that had been Harrian. "Jaheira, do you want… some help?"

The question was obscure, but understandable. "No. I shall… it is alright."

She hardly paused to think, and certainly didn't even look at Harrian's affairs as she shoved them quickly, forcefully into the Bag of Holding. Imoen needed her right then. She would need attention, and care of a healer who wasn't out of their mind, as Anomen seemed in danger of being.

As the four of them walked down the hill towards the inn at the bottom of the village, Anomen still carrying Imoen's limp form, Jaheira could hear Sarevok muttering curses as the peasants began to poke their heads out, curious at the spectacle. There had presumably been a lot of noise up from the monastery; but Amkethran was not a village where the curious people could safely investigate a disturbance for themselves.

"What do we do now?" Sarevok asked at last, when one particularly fierce glare sent a small girl running back for her door. "Harrian is gone. The prophecy does not concern us any more. We have no access to Bhaal's plane. No means of stopping Amelyssan."

"We should leave. There is no reason for her to even care," Anomen said quietly, his eyes still carefully on the path before him, everyone's progress at his slightly more limited speed with the burden of Imoen to bear.

"No reason…" Finally, the pained anger twisted in Jaheira's stomach. "Anomen, you have spent the last year working alongside Harrian. Working to stop the prophecies from coming true. Do you have no sense of duty, of responsibility?" She glared at him, only slightly worried at how appealing the idea of punching him was.

"Right now my concern is making sure no more of us _die_!" Anomen snapped back, his own eyes lighting up with anger and, in his case, fear. "We are not creatures of prophecy, we cannot stand up against a power like that of someone who has consumed most of the strength of a _god_."

"Most of." Reynald sounded thoughtful, and his relaxed tones at least calmed somewhat Jaheira's anger. "Think back to the prophecies, Anomen. The roles they outlines. How those affect us."

"They were _wrong_. Harrian was meant to be the one to end it all, to stop Bhaal from returning. Not to die from the treachery of… that bard." Anomen dropped his gaze, again returning it to his footsteps as they descended the hill of Amkethran towards the inn, which Jaheira could just make out through the houses.

"Or Asrael was really just another Bhaalspawn all along. '_One shall fall from treachery, a stab in the back by an ally_'. Rather literally, in this case." Reynald looked contemplative, evaluating.

"I do not know. I do not _care_," Anomen spat. "He's dead. I will find that bard, and I will _kill _him."

"I very much doubt it," Jaheira murmured. "For you shall have to outrun me to get to him."

"Let us focus on Imoen, first. And decide what we are going to do next." Reynald frowned. "I have a feeling that fate shall tug on our strings again soon enough."

The inn was full, as before, of the mercenaries in the red chain who were soon to be freed from the leash Balthazar could no longer tug upon. The news from the monastery would filter down soon enough. Had Jaheira been thinking in somewhat more straight lines, she might have feared for the townsfolk once these thugs were let loose upon them. As it was, she felt as if her feet were moving of their own accord, had dragged her down the hill, as if her body was on automatic and she was just an observer.

Anomen ignored the noise of the mercenaries and strode right up to the bar, where the fat innkeeper gave him and the girl in his arms a dubious glance. "A room. Now." The Helmite's voice was harsh and strong, and it was only through knowing Anomen particularly well that Jaheira could note the fear hidden within.

The innkeeper blinked. "We don't have any rooms. All full up. As you can see, business is booming."

Anomen scowled as Jaheira, Reynald and Sarevok stepped up to flank him. "You will clear out a room or I will clear one out _for _you."

Reynald, who still looked somewhat pale and moved with a deliberation that came from an obvious weakness after his injuries in the monastery, laid a hand on Anomen's arm. "My friend… calm yourself." Before Anomen could retort angrily, the fallen paladin had looked up at the innkeeper. "We shall pay you double for a room."

The innkeeper's small eyes shifted from side to side in obvious contemplation of this offer. Then he looked over at a pair of mercenaries rolling dice at a nearby table. "Oi! You two! You going to pay double for your room?"

Uncomprehending blinks met this comment, until one of the mercenaries shook his head slowly. "No. Why should we?"

"Then clear your stuff out." The innkeeper's voice was stern, and it seemed this was not a man who was being pushed around by the mercenaries. "Go on! Now!"

"But we…"

"The man gave you an instruction." Sarevok sounded somewhat amused, and even managed the ghost of a smile as the two mercenaries gave him a cautious look. It seemed they had remembered him from his last visit to Amkethran and his harsh justice.

They stood grudgingly. "Right you are," one of them muttered, and they headed towards the stairs.

"Get Imoen into the room," Jaheira said, looking to Anomen. "I shall be there… momentarily."

Anomen nodded, but Reynald looked slightly concerned as he looked over at her. "Perhaps asking after your wellbeing is a foolish question, but are…"

"I need some fresh air. Do not concern yourself." Jaheira managed to fake a smile for him, one she didn't think he believed - but it had been as much for her own benefit as for his. She nodded briefly, then turned to make her way out of the crowded inn, the jeers of the mercenaries not even heard by her.

The sun was beginning to set at last, hanging low in the sky and filling the desert air with an orange hue. The streets were empty, most of the mercenaries filled into the taverns, and the locals hiding away from thuggish enforcement of Balthazar's laws. Jaheira would have wondered, if she could summon the energy to care, of the fate of this town with the collapse of the monastic order.

But she could not care. Her feet, as before, dragged her away from the inn, away from the village, away from prying eyes and faces she could not allow the twisting inside her to take over in front of. She found herself finally approaching the outskirts of Amkethran, towards where the horses of the mercenaries stood, feeding on hay and quite unattended.

Jaheira paused, drawing herself up straight and looking around keenly. The only noise now was the sounds from the horses, and no signs of other life met her ears or her eyes. She was, finally, alone.

Control fled. Finally, a ragged sob escaped her, and the reserves of strength she had been using to cling to the impassive façade collapsed as her knees weakened and she fell to the floor. Sobs wracked her body, and tears she had not allowed herself to shed for more than just the minutes since Harrian's death finally streamed down her face. At last, she let herself cry - for Harrian, for fear for Imoen. For Khalid, for Gorion, for Belgrade, for Minsc, even for Yoshimo. But, perhaps most of all, for herself.

She was alone. As, perhaps, she was meant to be.

Muttered prayers to Silvanus brought neither answers nor comfort. And so she cried until she had no more tears, until her throat was raw from sobbing, until the essence of every moment she had forced herself to stand tall and strong had fled from her body. Even when she could cry no more, she didn't get up, feeling the weakness within her, knowing herself to be too vulnerable to return to the group.

Jaheira didn't know how long she knelt there in the sand, but it was fully dark by the time she thought she had composed herself to stand up. Her legs shook, and her breath faltered as she inhaled deeply, but she stood tall, again.

Harrian was gone. _Gone_. Despite her grief, she didn't think it had quite sunk in. And the last time they had spoken alone, she had lashed out at him in fear of the Bhaal taint, in fear of his control. Too afraid for herself to be afraid for him.

She had failed him. And then he had died.

Slipping back into the common room of the inn was relatively easy under the hubbub of the mercenaries, and her mind had already set to the task of tending to Imoen by the time she reached the wooden stairs.

But even as she began to climb them, footsteps echoed overhead, and a shaken Reynald suddenly appeared at the top, seemingly having stopped from a dead run upon seeing her. "Jaheira! At last…"

"You do not need to concern yourself about my welfare," Jaheira said, glad that her voice gave no betrayal of her faltering.

"I was just looking for you," Reynald said, not seeming to have heard her as he took a few steps down the stairs and almost began to drag her back up. "Imoen… she's waking up…"

Jaheira followed him instantly back up the stairs to the third floor of the inn, where their room was. The door was already open, and Sarevok stood at the threshold, looking in with more uncertainty than Jaheira had ever seen from the big warrior.

Imoen lay on one of the beds in the room, Anomen holding a damn cloth to her forehead. Indeed, she was stirring slightly, and Jaheira hurried over to the cleric's side. "What has she -"

But she didn't get a chance to finish her sentence as, suddenly, Imoen's arm lashed out to strike Anomen. Seemingly holding a force none of them would have expected, the priest was knocked away forcefully, staggering back a few steps until he hit the opposing wall.

"What in…"

Again, an interruption, this time as Imoen sat bolt upright, the cloth falling into her lap as her eyes shot open. But Jaheira could see, and knew - without even knowing how she knew - that it was not Imoen in those eyes, that it was not Imoen who had just sat upright, that it was not Imoen who lay before them all then.

Something very wrong had just happened.

The figure on the bed took a long, shaky breath, before looking at them all. "I have returned," Bhaal said.


	58. Chapter LVIII: Ravaging

**Chapter LVIII: Ravaging**

The voice was Imoen's - and yet, it wasn't. It was Imoen's in the most serious, grievous, and painful of moments, with every reverberation of the voice. It was Imoen speaking as Imoen never would, Imoen wearing an expression Imoen would never wear, Imoen who was in every single aspect not Imoen.

"You have served me well, friends of the Corias'." Bhaal blinked, looking at each of them in turn. "This would not have been possible without your help. When I defeat Amelyssan the Usurper and regain my full power, I shall reward you."

"What… who… why... what?" Anomen stared, his jaw slightly ajar. "What have you done with Imoen!"

Bhaal looked down at her hands, examining them carefully and curiously. "A body frail to the eye, but possessed of an inner strength. I did indeed choose well." Then she finally seemed to hear Anomen's question, and blinked inhumanly. "She is within me. As is Harrian. As are Balthazar, Sendai, Abazigal, Yaga-Shura, Illasera, and… you." Bhaal looked over at Sarevok with an expression of some confusion. "Your return was not anticipated. And yet you are… empty. A mere vessel."

"What _are _you?" Reynald asked, his eyes narrowing even as Sarevok's expression grew cold and hard.

"I am the Lord of Murder, rejuvenated and empowered by the essence of my children. I am the culmination of the prophecies of Alaundo." Bhaal looked over, her face blank.

Jaheira let out a slow breath. "I thought Amelyssan had stolen your essence? Was to return you with the power of the dead Bhaalspawn but was keeping it for yourself? Was… was Harrian wrong?" She folded her arms across her chest to stop her hand from itching its way towards her sheathed scimitars.

"Harrian was instructed by the guardian of prophecy, the Solar." Bhaal stood up slowly, looking her body up and down the way one might evaluate a horse for sale. "The Solar told him truly, for the most part. Amelyssan has taken the essence of most of my children and has kept it for herself." Finally, a hint of emotion as a thin smile crossed Bhaal's face that sent a shiver down Jaheira's spine. "She is a fool to believe I trusted her fully with the rites of resurrection, however."

"This is a fail-safe." Sarevok's voice was cold as he stared at Bhaal from his point at the doorway. "That is all the Eight were. A means for you to protect your resurrection. Because the Lord of Murder cannot trust anyone but himself."

"Most of the power lies in the essence of my children who are like those that died at Saradush. Weak lambs to the slaughter," Bhaal explained, oddly motionless as she continued to eye each of them in turn. "It is their power that Amelyssan has taken. She has a strength indeed, a strength to be reckoned with." Bhaal cocked her head to one side briefly, curiously. "She has betrayed you all as well. You wish vengeance, correct?"

"We want to see this through," Anomen said, ashen-faced as he slowly seemed to manage to regain control of his voice and his expression.

Bhaal nodded slowly. "I did not trust my high priestess to return me," she explained slowly. "I knew she would desire power, as do all beings. She knows not of the prophecies of the Eight. The Eight were my most powerful children, between them holding a sizeable portion of my essence - more so than any other child. Whereas upon death the essence of the others would flow to my Throne, the essence of the Eight remained in the survivors. And now, with the death of Harrian, it has all flown into Imoen."

"And so you have returned." Sarevok stepped forwards, and Jaheira could see that his entire body was taut with pent-up anger hardly in check. "But you are not at full strength. You are a shadow of your former self, you are a mockery of the power of the Lord of Murder, you…"

Bhaal's hand shot out, palm open, and struck Sarevok in the chest. He flew back across the room, hitting the door-frame with a crash, and slumped to the floor. "I have power enough to regain my former strength, child," she said. "Even your essence is within me. What makes you up now is simply flesh and blood. It is you who are the mockery of what you once were, you who aspired to godhood but now simply dance to the tunes of others who would reach for my throne."

"Harrian didn't want your throne. He just wanted to be free of you. But you hung around his neck until you got him killed," Jaheira said, her voice low and taut, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

"He was strong. But fate stood against him." Bhaal looked unconcerned as she turned towards the window, her eyes going to the darkness outside in Amkethran. "It was my greatest stroke to place Imoen in his shadow. His was a strength and greatness that would hide her. It was she who is key to my plans, and yet others who would stop my return would see only Harrian as a threat. Even all of you underestimated my hold upon her... even you, who holds still a portion of her soul." Her eyes went back to Sarevok, who was now picking himself up off the floor.

"And it burns within me at every movement," he spat. "You have no place here, Bhaal. Your time came and went."

"It shall come again." Bhaal took a step towards the door, seeming to ignore them and certainly not appearing to care that Sarevok was in her way.

"Hold!" Anomen called out, stepping forward. "You cannot leave. What of Imoen? She's not _dead_. I cannot allow you to simply… leave."

"Allow?" Bhaal looked dimly amused. "She is here, within, as the others are. All that is different is that she still has her body."

"And a chance to return to it. Have your fight with Amelyssan and then return her." Anomen's voice shook.

Bhaal seemed to consider this. Then she turned towards Sarevok. "You. I need you."

"Me? I thought I was but a pale mockery…"

"The shred of her soul you hold. I will need it to return to my plane."

Sarevok straightened up. "Only if you pledge to return Imoen to her body once this is over," he said, his jaw setting.

Bhaal looked almost surprised. "When my immortal powers have returned to me, I shall no longer need this vessel." She blinked. "Amelyssan betrayed you all as she betrayed me. I need this one to return to my plane, so I may return to my Throne. I offer you all the chance to join me for your own vengeance."

"I will join you, not for vengeance, but to see that Imoen is returned," Anomen said, his voice in a low growl.

"As shall I," Sarevok agreed as Reynald nodded in concurrence.

Jaheira grimaced. "I wish to see Imoen returned. I have also devoted many years of my life to this chaos you and your spawn have caused. I would see it all ended. Your return to power shall be no more catastrophic than the reign of Cyric. Better for the trouble to move to the Gods than to continue here. The Realms have been ravaged enough already by the deeds of your children."

Bhaal reached out her hand. "Sarevok. Here." It was almost as if she were summoning an animal. "Lend me your power."

Sarevok looked, again, ready to kill. "I have seen you interfere with me enough in my last life. I shall not suffer any more. You have been warned." He stepped forwards, face screwed up with distaste, but extended his hand to allow Bhaal to take it.

The trip back to Bhaal's plane was not disjointed, painful, uncomfortable as it had been under Harrian's power. Then, Jaheira's stomach had felt as if it had been turned inside out, and it took all her self-control to appear unfazed by the trip. This time, the transition was smooth, practiced, but with a rushing of air in her ears that had never been present before and seemed about as malevolent as rushing air could be.

"Harrian never did understand this place," Bhaal said as the plane rushed into Jaheira's vision. "It was his to control, his to command. None of my other children had access to this place. And yet… he denied it. As he tried to deny me."

"He did deny you." Jaheira scowled as her eyes flickered around the huge chamber of Bhaal's plane. The five entranceways to the other chambers were now all clear, and she dubiously looked at the final one, which was shrouded in shadow. The main entranceway was also still dark - but shimmering now, the shadows shifting and swirling in ways they hadn't before.

"Yes. He denied me when he almost killed Anomen. He denied me when he led the army into battle." Sarcasm was not something any of them would have expected from a dead God.

"What _happened _there?" Reynald suddenly sounded intrigued.

"His influence over others took over. You were all ready to follow him anywhere. All of you, all of the army. You were connected to him. And so when he submitted himself to my power, his bloodlust stretched out to you all." Bhaal looked over at Sarevok, who had pulled back the moment they had appeared and looked deeply uncomfortable. "Except for you. You… you I cannot reach."

"Good." Sarevok had begun to pace a little. "Let us finish this final mockery of a challenge and then end Amelyssan. Then maybe I may finally finish touring the cities of Calimshan. Or perhaps seeing Luskan. There was much of my life I wished to see to before you saw that I ended it early last time."

"Were it not for me you would never have existed. Gratitude is not beyond you." Bhaal stepped past him, towards the final entranceway to the final chamber. "I created these challenges. They must all be complete until we can reach my Throne. Amelyssan, usurping my power, is already there through the strength of the rest of my children." A small noise of amusement escaped her. "The Solar must have imagined that Harrian or Imoen would complete this challenge. Even those who knew of the Eight did not know of their purpose. Could not have anticipated my plan."

Anomen fell into step beside Jaheira as they followed Bhaal, who from behind merely seemed like a purposeful Imoen, towards the chamber. "What are we doing?" he hissed. "Doing Bhaal's bidding? Helping Bhaal return?"

"We are helping Imoen. And we are seeing this saga through," Jaheira responded curtly. "Do you honestly believe the return of Bhaal to power will make the Realms any worse than they currently are with Cyric's godhood? It was not _Bhaal _I feared. It was the affect of his children upon the realms. It was how Bhaal could destroy the futures of Imoen and Harrian. Harrian has already been taken. I will not see Imoen fall as well." There was a pause, and her expression flickered. "Besides, if we wish to stop him, there is no better place to attempt to do so than from by his side. Were we still in Amkethran we would have no hope."

"And little hope is better than no hope." Anomen nodded stiffly. "We shall… see this through. For Imoen, and for Harrian."

"For them both." Jaheira's throat constricted as they stepped through the entranceway into the dim chamber, and she did not think it was through nerves.

Bhaal let out a laugh at the sight which was before them as the darkness lifted, but Jaheira did not think there was anything particularly amusing about it. A creature stood in front of them all, huge, and the same shape as that of the Slayer - a massive monster of disgusting proportions and vicious countenance.

"This is the Ravager. This is the form of murder itself." Bhaal gave a small noise which could have been a snort of amusement as she raised a hand. "This is nothing more than a small inconvenience. It shall not strike me." Bhaal looked back at them all. "Perhaps I should make you fight it. To see how you fare."

Sarevok reached up for the Warblade, his eyes alight with battle. "I can show you how I do not need your strength to deal death," he spat.

Reynald put a calming hand on Sarevok's arm. "Would this be for your own amusement, Bhaal, or simply to cull our numbers?" he asked slowly.

Bhaal gave a small laugh. "For my amusement. Sarevok, you are still so easy to drive to battle. That was, I think, not something of my essence. There are many who kill who are not of my power. Something many of you have forgotten." The Ravager began to look this way and that, from Bhaal to the group, as if asking for permission to attack. "But I saw you all fight through the eyes of the Corias'. Your competence at murder cannot be questioned."

"Honoured, I'm sure." Reynald forced a smile.

Bhaal clicked her fingers, and the Ravager disappeared. "We have challenges enough without unnecessary weaknesses if we are to face Amelyssan. She has great power indeed, much of the strength of a god. Between you, the four of you helped to fell some of my strongest children. I am not foolish enough to think that I shall automatically prevail against my high priestess."

"And so you want us to _help _you?" Sarevok scoffed.

"And you wish Imoen back." Bhaal turned back to them. "So let us hurry now to the Throne. And by morning in Amkethran you may, perhaps, be free of me forever."


	59. Chapter LIX: Reckoning

**Chapter LIX: Reckoning**

The Throne of Bhaal was unlike anything Jaheira could have ever imagined before in her life. It wasn't even, as she had sometimes wondered, a typical throne. She had presumed that a megalomaniac as Bhaal - as she was discovering the once-dead God to honestly be - would have given himself a throne room from which he could lord over whatever realm he was allowed to rule. She had expected it to be loud, imposing, and encouraging of an ego.

Mostly, she had imagined there to be an actual _throne_.

As it was, there were no crowds to feed a God's ego. No grandoise displays of power or authority. No throne.

The centre of Bhaal's power was a plateau in a void. That was the only way she could see it; apart from the jade platform they stood upon, they were surrounded by what was literally… nothing. And the throne? The throne stood in the centre of the circle, but it was no chair.

The Throne of Bhaal was a pillar of dazzling green light, reaching far up into the void around them, broad and bright and blinding to behold. Jaheira suspected that she needed none of her druidic instincts to sense the celestial power radiating from this centre.

"This," the form of Imoen stated, the voice still sounding deeply _wrong_, for reasons Jaheira couldn't quite express, "is the end."

"The question is," Reynald said slowly, his eyes flickering about their bizarre surroundings, "the end of what?"

"Amelyssan. The prophecy. My… absence. Your entwinement with the Bhaalspawn saga." Bhaal looked about the environment slowly, and her eyes closed, seeming to be filled with remembrance.

"The end of all things." Jaheira took a deep, shaking breath. "Let us end this here, and leave you to your dark reign."

Bhaal gave her a sideways glance. "You think Silvanus would approve of aiding an 'evil' God to return to power?"

"There is no 'right side' in this battle," Jaheira replied evenly. "For the realms at large, there shall be no greater pain if you win than if Amelyssan wins. Or if Cyric somehow remains strong. The realms shall continue. I am simply here for Imoen, and to ensure that your squabble for power does not continue to ravage hell down upon Faerûn."

"Then where _is _Amelyssan?" Anomen cursed quietly, the Flail of Ages twitching slightly in his grasp. "I have waited long enough. Even if we are to die here, let us end this cursed quest and again know peace."

Peace. There was a misfit of a word, if ever Jaheira had heard one. In death, would they know peace? Would Silvanus condemn her for fighting by Bhaal's side? Even if he would not, would Sarevok return to the Abyss, or had his role in the Bhaalspawn saga saved him? Had Reynald served righteousness enough that his sins might be forgotten? Death might just mean eternal damnation for them all.

And if they lived? What would she do then? It had been so long since she had considered her life, her future, that the last time she'd had the occasion to, Khalid had been alive. And the others? If Imoen lived, she and Anomen might have some hope of happiness. But Sarevok? Reynald? Two men trapped in their individual struggles for redemption. Could they find peace in life?

The children of Bhaal had eaten up their lives and their very souls for so long now that Jaheira wasn't even certain that any of them could survive without the driving force Alaundo's Prophecies had given. She had never known any of them in a time of peace; every moment together had been filled with struggle.

Perhaps there was no peace.

Jaheira drew her scimitars evenly. At least, then, there would be an end. That would have to suffice.

Anomen's question seemed as if it was to be answered as the towering pillar of green energy in the centre shimmered erratically, and a shadow suddenly erupted from within. It took some time for them to recognise the figure bathed in the light of Bhaal's power, though there had never been any question in their minds as to who it truly was.

Melissan the mild-mannered citizen of Saradush hardly resembled Amelyssan the Blackhearted, who was truly the one standing before them then. She was a whole head taller even than Sarevok, and clad in a dark, horrendous militaristic armour, well-crafted and shimmering with a promise of death. Her helmet bore multiple plumes, impressive and daunting to behold, and in her hand was a long, threatening, cruel pike.

No longer did Jaheira have the small bubbling of distrust in her stomach as she regarded the figure before them. This was, she could sense, the woman as she truly was, not hidden behind masks of deception.

Finally, Amelyssan leapt from out of the shimmering pillar of energy, spinning around in the air before heavily booted feet finally struck the platform of the Throne of Bhaal. The metallic sound rang out to all of their ears, and it was clear that their arrival was expected.

She remained half-crouched from the impact, head low, but her pike still raised in a stance that was defensive - and could go the other way with just a flick of the wrist.

"So." Her voice echoed around, deeper and more powerful than the quiet Melissan might have presumed to speak. "You have finally found me here, and think you can defeat me. But where is the valiant Harrian?" There was a touch of mocking now, and Jaheira's grip on her scimitar tightened. "Was Balthazar too much for Bhaal's greatest son?"

"My greatest son fought the monk and slew him." The body of Imoen stepped forwards, and finally there was surprise on Amelyssan's face. "And then, as foreseen, he was betrayed, and killed. And my greatest _child _has finally achieved her destiny."

Amelyssan froze. "You are not Imoen," she said at last, her voice a little empty.

"No, my high priestess. I am the one you thought you had left at the wayside. The one you left for dead." A few steps forward, and eyes smouldering with hatred and power. "I am the Lord Bhaal, and I do not take lightly to betrayal, Amelyssan the Black-Hearted."

"But… you… I…"

"You thought you could defeat me so easily?" Despite the smallness of Imoen's body, Bhaal's presence loomed, seeming to take over the entirety of the infinite space of the Throne. Amelyssan could do nothing but cower in the face of the Lord of Murder, and Jaheira and the others only take a step back to avoid being caught in the rush of power and fury.

It seemed as if Amelyssan might even break there and then, just faced with her once-dead god. But power had evidently either strengthened or intoxicated her, and she straightened up to fix Bhaal with her own glare of death.

"So I did not anticipate your trickery," Amelyssan spat. "Resourceful of you, indeed, Lord of Murder. You truly were powerful; I can taste it in the strength of yours that now runs through me. You are nothing but a shell."

"The strength of mine that you have stolen will taste bitter should you attempt to turn it against me, Priestess," Bhaal said coldly. "We may be evenly matched in power, but you forget that I am older than the ages, while you are still a mewling child who does not comprehend the power she has stolen."

"You are trying to intimidate me into submission?" Amelyssan let out a short bark of laughter. "Foolish are you indeed, Bhaal."

Bhaal's hand came down to rest on the hilt of Imoen's shortsword, sheathed at her hip. "I imagine it shall be satisfying enough to punish you for your pride myself, should you refuse to stand aside."

"Your time is _done_, my old God. You should be dust, and I will happily see you return to that state! You may have Corias' lackeys mewling after you for approval and for hope, but I have been drinking in your power! You cannot hope to defeat me!" And the pike came up, sharp and threatening and no longer defensive.

Bhaal's expression cracked into the thinnest of smiles. "As you wish."

Then the two of them leapt into combat almost more quickly than any of the others could see. Imoen's short sword was in Bhaal's hand, and Amelyssan had her pike out to ward off any attacks.

Jaheira couldn't imagine anyone, even Harrian, having been able to match Bhaal for the speed displayed. Every single swing or stab from the sword could only be seen what appeared to be seconds after it was landed.

Amelyssan was mostly coping with the combat by bringing her pike around and using the range of the weapon to keep Bhaal at bay, and landing a few scratches herself - but it was the God who seemed to be winning, snipping and slitting at the old priestess with abandon.

"What… should we be doing?" Reynald asked, still looking tired from the day they had had and his physical battering in Balthazar's monastery. "Do we actually have a preference for which one lives?"

"Does it make a difference?" Sarevok seemed to be wearing a permanent wince. Jaheira could only imagine what was happening inside him - his connection to Imoen and her soul and whatever was happening with that and Bhaal's presence. "The Gods come and go, the realms remain."

"We're here to see this through," Jaheira said at last. "And to see Imoen may return from this in one piece. But I don't know…"

Then, Amelyssan landed a blow which might only be described as 'lucky'. Surely, if it had been intentional, then she would never have struck Bhaal with the flat of the blade of her pike. But strike she did, and Bhaal was sent flying back several metres, landing on the harsh ground of the Throne with a sickening crunch. Bhaal writhed a little, but did not rise.

Amelyssan let out a short, sharp, victorious laugh, and leapt forward, pike upraised, ready to stab down upon the prone God.

But as the blade of the pike was thrust downwards, aiming to skewer Bhaal utterly, it did not strike its intended target.

The Delryn Family shield crackled with colliding magical energies as Amelyssan's pike struck it, and the blade was deflected away. Anomen straightened up from where he had crouched to protect the body of Bhaal - though, Jaheira reasoned, it was more likely that he had been thinking of Imoen in that moment.

"I suppose I have picked a side," the Helmite sneered, then lashed out with the Flail of Ages.

Amelyssan's pike was still off to one side with the deflection of her blow, and the three heads of the flail struck her in the side. With a cry, she reeled back - then with her free hand lashed out at Anomen, hitting him in the side of the head and sending him flying back.

"I think we too have had our allegiance chosen for us," Jaheira muttered under her breath, then raised her twin scimitars, and charged.

Bhaal was back on her feet by the time the druid had practically flown across the throne room, blades whirling at Amelyssan, and was wearing something resembling a self-satisfied smirk at the reinforcements.

Amelyssan pulled back at the sudden new arrivals to the fight, but by no means did the light of battle in her eyes fade. She backed away from the shimmering green pillar in the centre to find herself more space, manipulating the pike in her hands with more skill than any of them could have ever imagined. It whirled around her, defensive and dangerous and keeping all of them at bay. To step closer was to threaten a blow from the sharp, vicious blade of the head of the pike, and potentially to bring an abrupt end to this fight.

Jaheira was doing all she could to keep Amelyssan on a strong defensive, to stop the priestess from pushing back. Her speed was inhuman; the druid could see Anomen on Amelyssan's other side, and even if the two of them tried to attack in conjunction, the pike would swirl around with impossible alacrity ward off both of them simultaneously.

Sarevok seemed to be faring a little better; his greatsword meant that he had the range the rest of them did not, and his heavy, but speedy swings were forcing Amelyssan to physically dodge out of the way, which kept on bringing her regularly closer to Reynald. But although the fallen paladin was moving with an alertness that belied the injuries and fatigue he suffered from, Amelyssan still impossibly found the ability to take one hand off the twirling pike to deflect the blows from Reynald's bastard sword with a gauntleted arm.

They were some of the finest warriors the realms had to offer, and yet all four of them were finding themselves unable to force this demigod to even break a sweat in fending them off. Jaheira could see that, though Amelyssan was striking back at them only when an opening particularly presented itself, the was biding her time, gathering her strength.

Then came the inevitable attack. Bhaal was charging across the Throne towards them, recovered from the solid blow Amelyssan had landed, ready to join her mortal allies. The approach of the Lord of Murder was not missed by any, least of all the former High Priestess.

The pike was brought up abruptly, and Jaheira stumbled as an arc of defence was suddenly no longer needed. But then Amelyssan's pole-arm was swinging again, this time superhumanly fast and with a strength that none of them had expected.

The pike twirled around at the four mortal warriors, the flat of the blade hitting each of them in turn in the chest. Jaheira felt the wind knocked out of her lungs on the impact, and was shoved clean off her feet to be sent flying back several metres, skidding along the jade floor. From the thumps and groans around her, it seemed the three men had not fared any better.

"Forget the lackeys," Amelyssan said coolly to Bhaal, bringing her pike back up. "Though I find the fact that you brought them on to your side deeply amusing. What did it take to win their loyalty?"

Bhaal had come to a halt halfway towards them, standing just a few metres away from the shimmering pillar of green in the centre of the Throne. "Lies that they wished to believe. That this body would be preserved when I ascended, that my greatest child might be _able _to live without my power to keep her mortal blood strong enough to sustain her."

Jaheira rolled over, trying to regain her breath, but could do nothing but cough weakly for a few moments. She felt a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth, and, had she had air enough, she would have cursed at the void above for her stupidity.

"You… can't…" Anomen was struggling to his feet, leaning heavily on the Delryn Shield. "You…"

Bhaal's hand shot out, and power rippled across the distance between the two of them. No physical contact was made, but Anomen was still thrown back another five feet, again hitting the ground with a thump. He moved still, but did not rise this time. "Your service shall be rewarded, Helmite. Do not press me."

"Rewarded? This is a battle you have not yet won, Bhaal," Amelyssan snapped. "Face me, Lord of Murder. Without your lackeys for amusement. You thought your petty mortals could defeat _me_?"

"Defeat?" Bhaal looked surprised, wearing the expression of Imoen's which suggested amusement and mock-innocence. Jaheira had managed to roll up to a kneeling position by now, though her voice was still gone and struggling to breathe again a top priority.

"These mortals? Defeat you?" Bhaal continued. "No. I never thought they would do that." A smile, and this one just as bright and charming as Imoen's teasing, victorious smirk at the conclusion of a prank… though with a dark light in the eyes that sent a shudder down Jaheira's spine.

Amelyssan was looking distinctively less amused. "Then…"

"I thought they might, perhaps, distract you so you might be driven away from the centre of power." Bhaal took a few steps left to stand next to the pillar of green. "It seems I was right."

Then her hand shot out to immerse itself in the centre of the sparkling emerald pillar of power.

Amelyssan lunged forward with a scream of defiance, but Bhaal only continued to smile… then the Lord of Murder's expression turned vicious, and there was a jerk of her arm to suggest something _wrenching _inside the shimmering green pillar. The priestesses charge halted, her scream dying, and she fell to her knees weakly as it seemed all strength was drawn from her.

"You thought that you could defeat _me_, in the centre of _my _power?" Bhaal spat, arm still submerged up to the elbow in the green light. "You thought that I would not know exactly how to turn _my _realm to _my _advantage? You thought that you could defeat _me_?"

"My lord…" Amelyssan's voice was a whisper. "I…"

"Do _not answer back_!" Bhaal's voice was a shout now, harsh and grating far beyond how any of them had imagined Imoen might ever sound. "You are _nothing_, Amelyssan the Black-Hearted! I am a _God_! I am the _Lord of Murder_! You thought to defy me?"

"My lord… please…" The whisper had, by now, turned pleading.

"Because I am a _merciful_ Lord," Bhaal snapped, though there was nothing convincing about the tone of voice, "I shall end your pitiful existence."

The hand again wrenched something inside the pillar of light, and Amelyssan let out a loud shriek of pain. When Bhaal's hand finally drew out of the shining centre of the Throne, it glowed with a green light of its own, shimmering and deadly.

Bhaal stepped away from the pillar, striding towards the prone priestess. "This is what happens to traitors to the Lord of Murder," the God declared darkly, glowing hand shooting out again. Just as Anomen had been knocked back before, this time so was Amelyssan, skidding back across the throne…

…but screaming in the most awful agony.

"I did not promise to end your existence _quickly_, though!" Bhaal shouted, waving the hand again and this time prompting Amelyssan to scream louder, writhing in intensive pain. "I shall have your screams echo across the realms for centuries to come, to warn _all _that one does _not _defy me!"

Jaheira had just about managed to clamber to her feet by now, and could mutter enough to grant herself a small healing spell - just necessary to fix broken ribs and make basic movement not bring agony from her chest. Intervening seemed… foolish, and thus she stepped towards the others to see how they were.

"You brought me to the centre of my power," Bhaal continued over Amelyssan's shrieks. "You thought you could defeat me. You fool! From here I can manipulate all of my power, all of my essence, and all it took to defeat you were four petty mortals as a distraction!"

Then she pulled back her hand, and the screaming of Amelyssan stopped. "But I have more to concern myself with than you. I have my throne to reclaim. Begone! I shall deal with you… later." Another wave of her hand, this time picking Amelyssan up and hurling her, screaming yet again, off the platform of the throne and far off into the void, disappearing in the darkness.

Bhaal took a deep breath as silence fell at last, eyes closed and seemingly drinking in the power of the Throne of the Lord of Murder. "At last," she muttered, almost to herself. "The realms shall know fear once again with my return."

"The realms have known fear for a long time," Sarevok, standing upright and shaking off help from Jaheira, stepped forwards. "Your return shall be the same as the change of the seasons in the realm; inevitable, part of the cycle, nothing to be overly worried about."

"You underestimate my power. Odd, for one who once drank of my strength, dreamed of my throne, to scoff at what I have." Bhaal looked dimly amused. "Begone. All of you. You aided me, and the Lord of Murder shall remember this. I shall repay you."

"You wish to repay us?" Anomen coughed up a little blood as he staggered forwards, using Skullcrusher as a crude walking stick. "Then return Imoen to us."

"She is a part of me, as I was a part of her. I shall not sacrifice the portion of my power that she holds. She is mine." Bhaal waved a hand dismissively. "Leave. Before I make you."

"Not… without Imoen." Anomen tried to straighten up, and Jaheira stepped over to stand beside him, her hands on the hilts of her own blades.

It took only the small flick of a finger from Bhaal to see Anomen's legs collapse under him and drop him to the floor again. The God stared at the four stunned mortals for a brief moment, then shook her head and turned her back.

"I may tire of you soon, and then my favour may wane. Leave. I have more to worry about than you." And she looked away from them all to stare deep into the shining, shimmering pillar of power in the centre of the Throne of Bhaal.


	60. Chapter LX: Redemption

**Chapter LX: Redemption**

Blackness.

Oblivion.

Nothing.

A gasp of air, a cold sweat, a shiver down the spine.

"Where am I?"

No answer from the void.

Reach down with shaking hands to feel for the hole in the chest that was there when the sun could shine. But how? No hole. No hands. No chest.

No body.

"I greet you, god-child."

Damnation.

"Oh, no. Not you."

A light in the void at last, a lantern to chase away the dark. A face that was recognised and, though not the most welcome in the world, was reassuring.

"Your destiny is upon you," the Solar said.

"My destiny? I'm _dead_. That sounds pretty… destiny-like to me." Harrian would have blinked, if he thought he had any eyes. He would have definitely paced, but he didn't think he had any feet.

He wasn't even sure he could actually _see _the darkness, or the Solar. It was more that he was…

…aware…

"That was the inevitability of fate. It was prophesised."

"Why in the hells did Haer'Dalis _kill _me?" It was, Harrian had to think, actually a little embarrassing that he'd been killed by the tiefling bard.

He couldn't entirely believe that he'd just thought that.

"What did I ever do to him? Apart from threaten to hurl him off a building?"

"A role was needed. An actor stepped forward. He served none but himself, and fate."

"And entropy. I guess killing me would be kind of entropic. Is that a word?" Harrian, again, would have been inclined to blink at this. Or scratch his head.

This was getting weird.

"…yes, god-child."

Inspiration struck suddenly. "Did he kill Asrael as well?"

"Yes, god-child."

A pause. "…has he killed Imoen?"

"No, god-child. Her fate is… different."

Harrian hesitated. "She's the last one. The last Bhaalspawn. What does that mean?"

"For you, god-child? Nothing. For her? Everything."

"Well, I'm glad we've got that cleared up. But how did Haer'Dalis even _know _about the prophecy?" Harrian demanded.

"A bard knows many tales, many of which are… dismissed. The Eight were thought by most to be a fairy tale attached to the Bhaalspawn Prophecies only by wishful story-telling."

"…and what now?" Harrian desperately wanted to scratch his beard. "What happens now? Where _am _I?"

"You are nowhere, god-child."

"Thank you. Now let's try that again, only more helpfully. What's happened?"

"You are dead. Your essence is returning to Bhaal as we speak. For now, you are in a… limbo. When Bhaal has all of your power, you shall cease to be." The Solar's voice was calm and flat despite the news being delivered.

"But… Sarevok didn't go nowhere. He ended up in the Abyss."

"Were he still there, he, too, would cease to be. Bhaal has returned to full strength. The Lord of Murder is back."

Harrian cursed under his breath. "So I failed. What about… the others? And Amelyssan? And Imoen?"

"They are not your concern. You have not failed, god-child. You have acted only as you could, and as you were destined to. It is now that your fate is in your hands. That you may change your future, and the future of the realms."

"So what do I do? I don't want to be… you know, a 'nothing'. I like thinking. It keeps me busy. I'd rather not be dead, too, but I can't have _everything_." A tense note crept into Harrian's voice.

"Bhaal can only consume you if you allow him to," the Solar explained. "Your will is your own, and with that, you may fight him."

"What?"

"This was what the trials in the pocket plane were for," the Solar said. "This is the moment you have been prepared for. This is where you decide upon your nature, once and for all."

"…explain." 'Overwhelmed' didn't really seem to cover the feeling washing over Harrian at that point.

"What you are shall define you and your future." The Solar was, at last, beginning to sound a little irritable at the continued requirement for explanations. "If you are of nothing but murder, if what you are is given worth by the blood of Bhaal, then you are his. But if you are a man, and if you have denied the blood of Bhaal, then he cannot consume you."

"How is it that I get this choice, and the others…?"

"They failed. They were of his blood."

Harrian paused. "Even Balthazar?"

"His defiance of his blood ran so deep that…" The Solar paused. "Blood is a circle, god-child. There is no straight line."

"Went so far one way he came out the other side?" Harrian guessed.

"His willingness to senselessly sacrifice you and your comrades, and countless others, saw him doing Bhaal's bidding, however unwittingly. Balance was beyond him."

"That's a tad harsh," Harrian pointed out. When the Solar didn't answer, he pressed on. "Okay. But what about Imoen? Has she tried and failed?"

"She is not yet dead. Her essence, her conscious, they have been… taken over by Bhaal." The Solar seemed to be pausing cautiously to find the right words.

"How?" Harrian snapped.

"She was the last," was the only explanation the Solar seemed about to give. "You should perhaps focus on your own plight rather than that of others. For once, god-child, this may be your salvation."

"Oh. Right. Me. I'm the more interesting subject anyway." Harrian grimaced. "What do I do?"

The Solar nodded appreciatively. "Steel yourself," it told him, "then reach out with your mind. And hold on to me."

"I knew you'd succumb to my irresistible charm sooner or later."

The void overcame him again, the Solar fading from view, darkness rushing in and filling _everything_.

When light appeared again, he was standing in a very crowded tavern.

"What the…" Harrian turned around as a door slammed shut behind him, but all he could see were the stone walls, oaken door, hordes of people drinking and the merriment filling the entire room. It wasn't a tavern he recognised… but there was something deeply familiar with the atmosphere, with the attitude of the customers and the serving staff…

It was, Harrian supposed, just A Tavern. And he was, he suddenly realised, very thirsty. A glance down at himself showed that he was dressed just as he might be if this were nothing more than an innocent trip down the pub. No armour, a sword at his belt for security only, soft boots and a coat rather than a travelling cloak.

He was just a man in the tavern. How normal. How novel.

Harrian pushed his way through the crowd towards the bar, where a large innkeeper who looked like an odd mixture of Bernard from the Copper Coronet - not that he'd spent too much time in that establishment after being banned - and Samuel Thunderburp from the Five Flagons stood polishing a tankard.

"Pint of ale? Blackthorn, if you have any?" Harrian waved a copper at the barman as he raised his eyebrows at him curiously.

"Right you are, Mister Corias." The barman nodded with a small smile, then moved to pour the pint. "Your friends are in the corner. They've been waiting for you for a while."

"My friends?" Harrian blinked, then looked towards the corner the barman had gestured to. He couldn't see anyone in particular through the crowds. "How… how long have they been waiting?"

"Oh…" The barman raised the full tankard to the counter, and slid it across towards Harrian. "Depends. Some of them have been there longer than others. First one arrived about two and a half years ago. Others just… here and there."

Harrian stared, then numbly took the tankard, dropping the coppers onto the surface of the bar. "Oh," was all he managed to say. "Thanks."

"Not a problem, Mister Corias." The barman nodded slightly and smiled politely as Harrian slowly turned away and headed towards the corner that had been gestured towards and spoken of.

"Ah-ha! Another plate of nuts for the righteous hamster! And another tankard of ale for his butt-kicking companion!"

"My large friend, I am still not entirely convinced that your miniature giant space hamster can consume any more of those nuts before he perishes, or perhaps explodes…"

"Nonsense! Boo can vanquish all nuts! Minsc will take care of the leftovers. And the shells. They get messy."

"M-Minsc… I'm not entirely sure that y-you need another tankard to d-drink…"

"Calm yourself, Khalid. I'm sure he knows his limits, and besides, it has been ever such a long wait. A few more drinks cannot hurt."

"I would agree with our mage friend! It seems as if our expected guest will not be arriving any time soon… and that is for the best, no?"

"W-well, I'd _certainly _like to have a w-word with him sometime s-soon. Not t-too soon, but s-sometime…"

"Oh." Harrian paused as he finally reached the table, a dark thought suddenly breaking him out of his shock. "Yeah. You're probably going to want to punch me, aren't you?"

Familiar faces turned towards him. The table was long, and not a single person seated there was a stranger to him. Some, however, were more familiar than others.

Khalid, Minsc, Dynaheir… Ajantis, Kivan… Viconia, Shar-Teel… Montaron, Xzar… Yoshimo…

…Gorion.

And one empty seat.

Harrian put down his tankard on the table, then sat down on the spare stool. "So, what's up?" His mouth was horribly dry, his heart felt like it was going to pound its way out of his chest, and yet his voice could still work.

"We were just discussing whether or not our large Rashemani friend should indulge in more nuts and ale, or if it is time… for a break." Yoshimo raised his tankard to Harrian. "It is good to see you, once again!"

Minsc gave him a slap on the back that stung just like it had in life. "The righteous butt-kicking warrior arrives! Fresh from a battle against evil, no doubt!"

Harrian winced. "Something like that."

Khalid wore a small, slightly amused smile. "Why should I w-want to p-punch you, then?" he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Harrian paused, sipping his ale. "Well. If you don't want to punch me, I guess I can't force you." He managed a sheepish, lopsided smile.

"I know what's h-happened. We have a f-fantastic view from this t-tavern. You haven't g-given me a reason to h-hit you. Y-yet." Khalid's smile broadened. "L-lecture you a few times, m-maybe. But not h-hit you. I wouldn't warn you if you'd g-given me a reason, m-mind."

"Honourable but practical." Harrian's smile turned slightly sad. "I… what is this place?"

"Tavern of the dead, some of the more melodramatic have chosen to call it." At last, Gorion leaned across the table towards him, making a steeple with his fingers. "Hello, Harrian. I had not hoped to see you here for some time."

"Fate had different ideas, apparently. The prophecies caught up with me. But… why am I here? I mean, the Solar told me I had something to… do?" Harrian blinked. "Not that I don't want to sit and drink with you all, but…"

"Time is of the essence." Gorion nodded.

"Was it a valiant battle that felled you?" Minsc asked excitedly. "A grand war that shall be sung of throughout the ages? Oh, how Minsc wishes he could have been there!"

"It wasn't a battle, Minsc." He patted the ranger on the forearm reassuringly. "You didn't miss anything. It was just a…" Harrian paused, frowning.

"We saw," Yoshimo said calmly. "I cannot wish to throw stones and make comments about betrayal… but the bard…"

"After what I've seen, and what I've done, Yoshimo, I can't blame you for your actions under a geas. You took the only honourable way out." Harrian nodded to him, and Yoshimo managed a small, but sincere smile.

Then he looked back at Gorion. "You said time is of the essence, though, father. What do I have to do? The Solar said something about not letting Bhaal consume me? How do I do that?"

"L-look around you, Harrian." Khalid leaned forward. "Look at the f-faces of the p-people in here. Who are they?"

Harrian leaned back, tearing his gaze finally away from his dead comrades, and at the patrons of the bar. For the most part, they just seemed like… people. The odd orc, or minotaur, or other odd sight, but mostly… just people. Drinking.

A sharp laugh from his left caught his attention, and his gaze drifted over to a small group of men, unshaven and raggedy but sharing drinks and looking deeply amused about some joke they were enjoying.

He knew these men.

Ertof Dand and his five bandit companions. The men he'd killed on the western road out from Athkatla over a year ago.

His eyes drifted elsewhere, across other faces. Baron Ployer, sharing a drink with Faldorn, a rather odd sight indeed. A couple of the Harper followers of Dermin Courtierdale standing at the bar. Some drow in a corner.

"I've killed all of these people," he said at last, blinking. "What the hell _is _this place?"

"Look closer, and you'll see that they're fading. One by one, disappearing." Gorion pointed to a soldier of Gromnir's who disappeared right before their very eyes. "Once they're all done, it'll move on to us, the ones who fought and died alongside you. Then, when nobody else is left, you'll fade, and everything about you - your power and your mind - goes to Bhaal. He'll have consumed you."

"How do I avoid that?" Harrian leaned forwards. "What do I do… how do I fight him? I'm figuring this is just some sort of crazy interpretation of an inner struggle, but… what do I do?"

Khalid and Gorion exchanged glances. "Leave the t-tavern," he said simply. "Just open the d-door."

Harrian's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"

Gorion looked distinctively unhappy. "That is for you to find out. You are most fortunate, Harrian. The other Bhaalspawn who had this struggle had no allies to tell them what to do. Only faces of those they had killed."

"Can you help me get to the door?" Harrian looked at them.

"We have helped all that we can." Yoshimo leaned back, sipping from his tankard. "We cannot interfere. This is your battle. To prove that you are more than just what Bhaal has made you."

"This is where you choose your fate, Harrian," Gorion told him. "I just hope that I have helped to prepare you for it sufficiently."

"If it weren't for you, father," Harrian stood up and grasped his shoulder. "I'd have fallen to Bhaal long before today."

He turned towards the door, tense and uncertain. None of the others in the tavern seemed to be reacting to him at all, and so he stepped forwards slowly. Past the drow, past Ployer, past all of them… towards the door.

Was this a joke? Some sort of trick? Go and open the door. How hard could it be? Nobody was even trying to…

…Ertof Dand and his five companions stepped up just as Harrian was within three metres of the exit.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" Dand grinned. "Pretty boy wants to leave? Party's just beginning."

_Oh, great_.

"Look, mates, I just want some fresh air." Harrian shrugged and tried to smile disarmingly. "It's a bit stuffy in here."

Dand didn't budge. "Oh, so he thinks he's too good to spend time with the likes of us?" An eyebrow was raised. "No, you stay where you are, boy."

_Right. Tricks of Bhaal to keep me here. I have to get past these idiots, and right now_.

Despite the fact that two of the bandits were standing shoulder to shoulder, Harrian tried to push past them. But they were larger than him, more solidly built than him, and just shoved him back.

"Don't walk away when we're talking at you, boy!" Dand snapped. "Manners, boy, manners! Could at least play nice if you think you're too good for us!"

"I really have to leave. No offence to you, mates, but it's a busy day." Harrian raised his hands non-aggressively.

"Have to run away from your killings, eh, Corias?" Dand raised an eyebrow. "Fiercely cowardly of you."

Irritation boiled in Harrian's stomach, strong and intoxicating. He wondered what Dand would look like with his face re-arranged - then, sickeningly, an image of the bandit with Harrian's knife through his jugular, as had happened last year, flashed across his mind.

"I just have something I need to do."

"You're not going anywhere," Dand continued.

Harrian scowled, then gave one of the solidly built companions a hard shove, trying to physically get him out of the way rather than get by him. The man staggered back, then stepped forwards, glaring, raising his fists.

"Lookin' for a fight?" the bandit demanded.

"If you don't get out of my way, certainly!" Harrian snapped back. "I've fought worse than you. Actually, I've fought _you _before. Remember how that went?"

Behind him, a drow disappeared.

"H-Harrian!"

"I've got it under control, Khalid!" Harrian snapped.

"You think you're tough, boy?" the bandit demanded. "Alright. I'll give you one free swing. You being so scrawny, and all."

Harrian nodded slowly. "Alright. A more honourable man would object to this. But right now, you're in my way, and you're hacking me off." Then he punched, quicker than the man could possibly have anticipated.

His fist went through nothing, and Harrian staggered as the bandit faded into oblivion as the others had before - and so did one of the others.

Dand and his three remaining companions gaped. "You killed 'em!" Dand snapped. "Again! Weren't once enough for you?"

"They were in my way. I'm heading for the door," Harrian muttered.

Again, Dand and his bandits moved to stand right in front of the Bhaalspawn, presenting a solid wall of muscle. "Cowardly, rude, and murderous too," Dand commented. "Not the brightest of sparks, either."

"Get out of my way, Dand. I'm trying to help you, you idiot."

"I don't _want _your help, boy. Not from the likes of you."

Harrian rolled his eyes. "I think I can count on one hand the number of people who I've helped who didn't end up resenting me in some way because of it. At least you're getting pissy at me from the beginning. Makes things easier." He stared. "Now get out of the way."

"I thought we cleared up the whole 'no' part, sunshine."

Harrian's grip on the nearest bandit was firm as he reached out to try and physically haul him out of the way, but another of the thugs stepped forward to try and lash out at the Bhaalspawn. Harrian instinctively released one of his hands and made a strike at the stomach of the aggressive bandit, but as before, he faded into nothingness - and so did the one he was holding.

Dand shook his head incredulously. "So much for helping us! You're just getting rid of us even faster! S'like you didn't even learn from last time! Killed all of us without even blinking then, too!"

Harrian froze. "Oh," was all he managed to say eloquently.

"Yeah, 'oh'!" Dand scowled, stepping forwards. "Cowardly, rude, murderous. Bet your daddy's proud, eh?"

"This is how it is, then." Harrian stared at the floor, not addressing Dand as he spoke.

"Yeah! This is how it is! I'm pissed off is how it is!"

Harrian raised his head slowly, meeting the bandit's eyes. "I'm sorry I killed you," he said at last. "But you had a knife at the throat of someone I care about. I made a choice. It was you or her. I chose you." He glanced over his shoulder at the other remaining bandit. "I have no excuses for killing you or your friends. Your boss… I was angry. Bhaal took over. I failed to control him."

Harrian paused, then raised his voice to address the entire room. "Those of you I slew in combat, where it was kill or be killed… I think you all understand. Those of you I killed needlessly… or killed when Bhaal guided my actions because I was too weak to resist him… I'm sorry."

Harrian looked over at Dand, then reached down into his pouch to pull out a couple of coppers. "Buy yourself and your mate there a drink."

Dand looked slightly sceptical. "Well," he said at last. "You did what you had to do for your elven lass, I suppose. And you do seem sorry about the boys." He nodded finally, then stepped sideways. "I guess you can go. We'll drink to ye, Harrian Corias."

Harrian stopped, then looked back at table of his friends. Ajantis appeared to be bickering vehemently with Viconia about something, Montaron had his head in his hands as Xzar ranted beside him, Shar-Teel looked as if she wanted to pound Yoshimo's head into the table…

He met Gorion's eye, and Khalid's and gave them small nods. Then he took a few steps forwards, and opened the door.


	61. Chapter LXI: Resolution

**Chapter LXI: Resolution**

Jaheira felt the blood trickle from her nose, and she raised a hand to wipe it away, as if the crimson dribbling down onto the jade platform would in some way be distasteful. Her entire body ached, and she didn't think it was just from the battle against Amelyssan.

Beside her, Reynald was leaning heavily on his sword, his breath coming raggedly. "I… I think we now have to leave."

Jaheira shook her head vehemently. "No. Not without Imoen." Her jaw clenched, and her grip on her scimitar's hilt tightened. "Whatever that bastard says."

"'That bastard' happens to be a God, my friend," Reynald said quietly. "He could kill us all. If we press him, I believe he will." There was a pause, and Reynald frowned. "Or do we call Bhaal 'her'…?"

"I don't care what you call it. I'm not leaving here without Imoen. If he's so all-powerful, then can't he free her?" A scathing note crept into the hard bitterness in Jaheira's voice. "Leave if you want. Walk away. This was never your fight."

"Technically, the fight is over, and it wasn't ours to begin with." Reynald laid a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged off roughly.

Anomen made a small sound of pain as Sarevok bodily lifted the sturdy priest to his feet. "It is a fight we have joined willingly, and it is only over when we _say _it is."

"Or when you die. We cannot defeat Bhaal – Bhaal defeated Amelyssan, and all of us together could not even scratch her." Reynald's voice dropped, and he leaned in towards Jaheira. "I do not think Gorion would consider your promise to him broken if you refused to die needlessly. This would not be a death for the sake of your ward, this would be suicide."

Jaheira's hand lashed out, curling into a fist aimed at Reynald's face, but the fallen paladin was fast, faster than she was in her tired and drained state. Even wounded, he was quick enough to raise a hand to catch her fist, and his grip was far stronger than she'd expected it to be.

"That won't help either."

"So you propose we walk away?" Anomen spat blood onto the floor of the Throne, and Jaheira glanced away as it sizzled on the emerald surface. "That is _cowardly_, and..."

"A heroic death here will solve nothing, other than allow you to delude yourselves into thinking that you are making a difference." Reynald folded his arms across his chest, eyes cold as he stared at Anomen. "What is cowardly here is that you are allowing your fear of the consequences of this failure to rule your decision."

It took Sarevok physically grabbing Anomen to stop the priest from lunging forwards. "Whatever our opinions, he is correct in that trying to kill each _other _will help nobody, least of all Imoen."

"I'm not leaving," Anomen said flatly.

Jaheira drew herself up straight. "Nor I."

"If you wish to depart, dark knight," Bhaal's voice echoed across the Throne from where she stood near the pillar of light in the centre, "then that can be arranged. Say the word, and you can all leave. If your friends do not wish to leave with you, then do not fear, they shall be with you soon enough. I cannot guarantee that they shall be returned intact."

"You say you owe us?" Reynald stepped forward. "If you cannot return Imoen, just take us away from here; all of us."

Anomen again tried to lunge at Reynald, but Sarevok held him strong. "Don't you _dare_…"

"…I'll bear the consequences myself." Reynald drew himself up straight.

"This is _not _your decision to _make_, Reynald," Jaheira spat. "Bhaal! I will see you dead and gone for this, _again_." Her scimitar slid out of its scabbard with only the slightest ringing of metal.

Bhaal observed them all with a cool, impassive gaze, none of Imoen's warmth in the eyes fixed on each of them. "Leave if you wish," she said at last. "If you stay? If you wish to fight me? You will die. I could kill you with the wave of my hand. This is my realm; Amelyssan herself could not defeat me. Do you think you mere mortals can?"

Anomen stepped forwards, Skullcrusher in his hand. "I expect to die trying. But it is better than slinking off like a cowardly dog!"

Bhaal looked halfway inclined to roll her eyes. "So be it. You have signed your own…"

There was a pause as Bhaal's voice trailed off, then an expression of pain crossed her face. She let out a small groan and took a step back, then doubled over in agony.

"What in the…" Jaheira stared.

"No!" The word escaped from Bhaal's mouth with a harsh grating voice, sounding even more alien coming from Imoen's body. "You… you cannot… you are _mine_…"

"Correction," a new voice echoed about the Throne, familiar and warm and dominating. "I'm nobody's. Except for, possibly, mine. And I deny you, Bhaal, once and for all!"

Bhaal fell to her knees, face contorted in pain. "You are…"

"_You_ are _beaten_," the voice continued, and there was a shimmering in the pillar of emerald light in the centre of the Throne. It swirled around oddly, becoming brighter – so bright it hurt to look at it.

Then Harrian Corias stepped out of it and onto the floor of the Throne of Bhaal.

"And I'm the one who's finally ended you."

"You might have defied me," Bhaal managed to spit, staring up at him, "but that doesn't end me."

"No?" Harrian took a step forward, boot swinging, and Bhaal was knocked over onto her back as he kicked her in the stomach. "_That _is for everything you've put me through, everything you've made me do." He scowled. "And also for wearing that body. You've taken over my sister, corrupted her body and twisted her. You'll pay for that, as well.

"As for ending you… you haven't claimed all of your power yet. You're not _quite _there. It takes time, dragging in all the essence of all of the Bhaalspawn to refuel you," Harrian continued, now pacing in front of Bhaal. "I might be dead, and as far as I know, that's not going to change, but I've fought you off. You're not going to get my essence. And you _need _my essence, the essence as one of the Eight, for you to carry on. Even if you'd ascended fully, you'd need my essence. I have a huge chunk of you in me. And without that… you're beaten."

Bhaal managed to struggle to her feet, staggering and weak. "Not _yet_, son of mine…"

But her attempt at swinging a blow at him failed, for Harrian dodged it with ease, sidestepping Bhaal and delivering a swift kick at the back of the knee to send her sprawling back to the floor.

"No. Not yet. But…" Harrian walked slowly over to the pike Amelyssan had left, and picked it up gingerly. "What if I throw a spanner in the works, so to speak? This pike here… this isn't normal, is it? Enchantments of godly proportions on it. It's enough to give anyone a bad day." He sauntered back towards the pillar.

"Don't you… don't…" Bhaal raised a hand towards Harrian, but the gesture was weak and futile.

"Maybe I should give you a bad day." Harrian lifted up the pike, contemplatively eyeing the shimmering pillar of emerald light, the centre of the Throne of Bhaal, the focus point of all of the essence of the children.

"How… did you fight me off?" Bhaal gasped at last, just as Harrian drew the pike back to strike.

Harrian paused, and a small smile tugged at his lips. "From day one, I had people talking to me who I wanted to listen to more than I wanted to listen to you. And they talked an awful lot more sense." He took a deep breath. "Goodbye, Bhaal. And Imoen? If you're in there, listening, and this doesn't work the way I figure it should? I'm sorry."

Then he struck the base of the pillar with the blade of the pike, hard.

The light shimmered again as the jade base cracked, and Bhaal let out another scream. The green sparkling of the pillar began to spread out, the container of the essence of the children weakening…

Then it exploded in a bright, shining shower of light, again so bright as to force Jaheira to close her eyes.

When it subsided, and when she could see again, the sight before her was that of Harrian kneeling before the prone body of Imoen, who no longer bore any of the marks of battle that Bhaal had sustained in the fight against Amelyssan and the short scrap with Harrian.

"You're…" She dashed forwards, running faster than her aching body particularly approved of, and Harrian stood up as she approached… then raised his hands in a clear gesture to get her to stop.

"Wait. No. I'm not… I don't want you to think… I'm not back." His voice faltered, and the brief expression of success he'd worn as he'd struck the base of the pillar was replaced by one of sorrow. "I'm dead. So far as I know, Bhaal being gone can't change that."

Anomen darted over, limping a good deal more than Jaheira had been but moving at an impressive rate for one who had taken the battering he had, and fell to his knees next to Imoen. "My lady," he muttered, fumbling off his gauntlets and reaching for her, eyes roving over her body for signs of life. "Is she…"

"I don't know," Harrian admitted. "Bhaal's gone, but what affect that had on her…"

"What did you _do _to Bhaal?" Reynald asked as he and Sarevok finally joined them. "How is he gone? What happened?"

"You freed the essence of the Bhaalspawn, didn't you." Sarevok gave a small smile as he regarded Harrian.

"The Throne of Bhaal was the centre of the essence of the Children," a new voice joined the commotion. There was a pause, and then the Solar slowly faded into existence before them. "In destroying the core, their essence has indeed been freed. Bhaal had not yet returned fully, and thus his hold over their power was tenuous. When Harrian fought him off for the final time, he was weakened enough that the destruction of even the mere physical chamber meant that the essence escaped him."

"What about Imoen?" Anomen demanded, bare hands finally reaching for her body, searching for a pulse.

The Solar paused, looking down at her prone form. "She will live," it decided at last. "Being the vessel of a God has been a strain upon her. It may be some time before she wakes."

"Actually…" Imoen's eyes flickered, and she let out a small groan. "I'm not so sleepy any more. Though I kinda wish I was; my head stings something rotten…"

"My lady!" Anomen grasped her hand, and helped her sit up gingerly, his expression one of jubilation and awe. "You are… I had hoped, but did not dare to truly…"

"It's alright, Anomen." Imoen managed a weak smile, but one which shone with sincerity, and she raised a hand to his cheek softly. "I'm… fine. Thirsty, but fine."

"Oh, I'll…" Anomen fumbled briefly for his water flask, hands shaking with shock.

Jaheira raised her gaze finally to fix it on Harrian, hesitation in every move. "And you? You… you beat Bhaal… 'saved the day'…" She winced a little bit. "No second chances?"

"Don't hope. Please don't hope." Harrian grimaced. "I… I don't know. I mean, this isn't 'normal'. I'm not in some forsaken corner of the Abyss, or in Kelemvor's wall, nor have I found myself some nice plane to bounce around in. I'm… dead." He glanced over at the Solar. "Right?"

The Solar drifted over. "You were killed by the bard Haer'Dalis. Your mortal form ceased to be, as happens with all of the Bhaalspawn. You are 'different'. There is much for us to discuss, still. But returning to life would require more than I can grant."

"But…" Imoen leaned heavily on Anomen as she tried to struggle to her feet. "How come I get this and he doesn't? Sarevok came back! So did Jaheira, after the… vampirism…" Her voice was weak, but she pushed on. "You know, I do what I did for Sarevok, give a part of essence, of soul, bang, Harrian's back… right?"

"You no longer hold the power of a God in your veins," the Solar told her calmly. "The essence left your body when the invasion of Bhaal was expelled. You are a mortal now, 'normal' once again."

"I'm… Bhaal's essence is gone from me?" Despite her fatigue, despite Harrian, despite it all, Imoen's face couldn't help but light up in glee and faint confusion at the noise. "He… he took it with me?"

"Indeed." The Solar nodded slowly. "As a result, your soul is normal, it is mortal. Before, the taint, the godly touch, granted it a power which you could tap into to fuel the resurrection of Sarevok."

"Where has the essence of all of the Children gone, if it is not here? If it is just drifting, then perhaps we could use it again as we did with Sarevok. Or, worse, maybe Bhaal could make another bid." Reynald's voice trailed off, and he eyed the Solar curiously.

"It will be secured by Ao, locked away so neither Bhaal nor pretenders to his throne may make another bid for power. The souls of the children shall go to their fate peacefully, and the realms shall… return to how they were, without the progeny of the Lord of Murder sowing chaos wherever they go," the Solar said.

"So that's it. No resurrection spells. Nothing from Ao." Imoen was ashen-faced as she leaned heavily against Anomen, who continued to stoically support her. "None of the power in anyone's soul to use to bring Harrian back."

"Even if there were, you sacrificed a portion of your soul already to bring back Sarevok. A second attempt might have meant your own death," the Solar explained levelly.

Imoen raised an eyebrow slowly, not looking too horrified at the prospect. "That would have been…"

"Don't say that." Harrian looked back from where he'd been staring into the blackened, cracked, and charred mess which had been the base of the emerald pillar of Bhaal's power. "We're leaping to false hope here… you're all going to have to leave, and just accept…"

"Wait." Jaheira looked up at the Solar, eyes suddenly lighting up with that dangerous glint always speaking of a fresh idea. "You said she sacrificed a portion of her own soul to bring Sarevok back. Then… is any of that power within _Sarevok_?"

The big warrior looked up, blinking owlishly. "If it is there, then could that not be used to repeat the process with Harrian? Or is it… too… diluted?" His brow furrowed, though despite the hesitation in his voice there was real hope, too.

"There is enough of the godly power within you to sustain life where life ought not be," the Solar said slowly. "But to use it to return Harrian…"

"_No_." Harrian's expression was cold, hard, and certain. "Nobody sacrifices themselves for me. Nobody. I won't ask that of anyone." His eyes drifted past Jaheira's gaze for just a moment before settling on Sarevok. "I won't _let _anyone…"

Sarevok's expression remained dark, brooding. "It would work?" he asked the Solar. "The power keeping the spark of life within me could be… transferred?"

"We're not talking about this," Harrian said, with further certainty. "I can't believe you're even _considering _this… Sarevok, you got a second chance. I want you to make the most of that second chance, not cut it short for…"


	62. Chapter LXII: In Memoriam

**Chapter LXII: In Memoriam**

They buried Sarevok in Amkethran, under the watchful eye of scores of terrified villagers. Just at the outskirts of town, Reynald and Anomen digging up the sand when the wind was still enough to not blind them, they prepared a final resting place for he who was hopefully to be the last of their fallen comrades.

Jeers from the mercenary guards were heard for approximately ten seconds before a wave of Imoen's hand saw the group magically silenced; a move for their weaponry halted when Harrian finally stepped out of the tavern, looking worn and tired but unmistakeable.

Some of the mercenaries had seen him die and turn to ash. All of them had heard of his fate, not one day previously. So when the General of the Bhaalspawn army trod towards them wearily, only in simple desert clothing but with his hand still at the hilt of his sword, no magical intervention would have been needed to silence them.

A blink, a disparaging look at the array of weapons the mercenaries held, a slight incline of the head, were all enough to send them packing. And by that evening, Amkethran was empty of the warriors in their crimson chain, harassing townsfolk with great glee.

One aged monk ambled down from the mountain to talk with them; the handful of survivors from the monastery seemed to be gathering themselves from the loss of Balthazar and their comrades. But nothing was said of grudges, or indeed anything other than of how the monastery was set to return to the old ways, of supporting and aiding the people of Amkethran.

By then, the sun was setting and a good many mercenaries were still making their way out of town as Anomen and Reynald gently lowered the lifeless form of Sarevok, wrapped up in sheets of cloth, into the fresh grave.

The Solar had, at the Throne, done nothing dramatic. Sarevok had given his instruction, and the small wave of a hand had seen the great warrior roll his eyes back into his head and fall to the ground without a sound, dead.

What had followed had been distinctively similar to Sarevok's own resurrection some weeks before, only this time the shimmering light of immortal soul had wrapped itself around Harrian's ghostly form until he had stood before them, complete, breathing, flesh and blood.

Nothing had been left to think or do save bury their comrade.

Harrian held the shovel full of sand with a slight uncertainty as he looked at his four companions. "Are we supposed to say something? A few words?" He glanced down at the grave, now holding Sarevok's corpse. "Anomen? You're the priest here…"

Anomen shifted his feet. "Traditionally, I would dedicate the soul to Helm. I have adapted sermons for those of other faiths, or unknown faiths. Most of those consist of praying that the fallen finds their ending in the afterlife." He gave a faint shrug. "I suppose we know for a fact that Sarevok found his peace. That _was _the arrangement."

Imoen stepped forwards, moving to stand next to Harrian and placing a hand lightly on the handle of the shovel. "He lived… eternally in Bhaal's shadow. Even his second chance was a life filled with atoning for that which Bhaal brought upon him. He went to the Abyss, and when he lived again he did everything to not return there. I don't know if you can say that it's _good _to try and live your life well solely to avoid punishment at the end… I know he wasn't nice, or particularly kind. But most of what was evil in him came from Bhaal. So he… he deserves his peace in death, if he couldn't find it in life."

Harrian gave her a fond sideways glance. "Much more eloquent than I could have put it, sis," he said with a slight nod, then glanced up at his friends again. "I suppose that with Sarevok we bury the chaos of the Bhaalspawn. The prophecies have been concluded, the warring for godhood is ended, and the realms are only slightly more screwed up than they already were. This is, as they say, _it_. The end."

It took a close look from Jaheira, standing by his side, to see the glistening of tears in his eyes - grief for Sarevok, guilt for his life, but above all… relief at the end. Then he blinked the tears away, before stepping forward to toss the first shovel of sand onto the body.

It was fully dark by the time they'd finished, ambling back into the common room of the now rather empty tavern. Despite a reduced custom, consisting of the group and a handful of merchants, the innkeeper seemed somewhat relieved at the absence of the mercenaries, and was more than happy to roll out some of the better Tethyr wines and an array of real food as they sat down to enjoy their first meal together free from Bhaal.

Reynald was the one to voice the thoughts rocketing through their minds as they cracked open a second bottle and were fairly far into their bowls of soup. "So… with the prophecies concluded, with Bhaal gone forever, and his children dead or… 'immunised', what happens now?"

Harrian gave a small smile as he swirled his glass of the wine. He was still adamantly out of armour, the Daystar at his hip only as a matter of habit, his dark hair looking comfortably ruffled, beard in need of a trim. But for the first time as they looked at him, he appeared to be his twenty-two years, and not a day older. The weight of the world was gone from his shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes dulled.

Scars of the last two years would not disappear. The damage was done. He would not regain lost youth; growing up too quickly was not something that could be undone. But, perhaps, there would be a break from the trials for the first time in years.

"Now that it's over? I suppose we do whatever in the hells we like," Harrian said at last, wearing his usual broad, smug smirk. "Go wherever we like, do whatever we like. No more Bhaal. No more impending doom. Getting back to living our lives." He glanced over at Anomen, eyes shrewd and evaluating. "I imagine you're antsy to get back to the Church and the Order."

Anomen inclined his head a little sheepishly. "I have my knighthood, I have my place within the clergy. Both Order and Church have understood my duties by your side, but there will forever be duties demanding my attention. I suppose that I have now seen trials greater than anything else the world has to hurl in my direction, but work is not complete."

"Not one for retirement, then?" Harrian's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly from Anomen to Imoen, thoughtful and amused.

"A bit soon for that, no?" Anomen wore a slight frown. "There is still evil in the world. Still the word of Helm to spread. Still duties to tend to. No, I shall…" His voice faltered, and finally his eyes shifted, surreptitiously, towards Imoen. "I believe I shall have to return to Athkatla. For… some time."

"I will, I believe, travel with you that far," Reynald agreed. "Perhaps visit the Order, briefly. Ensure to them that I am not rampaging across the countryside placing babies on spikes." His smile was wry, self-aware. "And then… then, onwards. Wherever the road may take me. Probably north..." The Fallen Paladin glanced over at Imoen, wearing a nearly invisible, yet deeply amused smile. "And yourself? Candlekeep, and magical studies?"

Anomen twitched very slightly at this, and Imoen looked a little flustered. "Um... no, no, I don't think so," she said quietly. "Rather... well, I'd rather be using my magic and skills than just studying. I mean, now that I don't have to worry about Bhaal, I can actually do good for its own sake, you know?"

"I do indeed," Reynald said, his smile broadening a little as he poured himself some more wine.

"So I was kind of thinking of going with you guys to Athkatla. And maybe sticking around there. I mean, Cowlies, the Shadow Thieves... there're two groups of people who could do with a nudge or so," Imoen shrugged, gesturing slightly as she talked. "Different laws on magic use, or at least different punishment system. Spellhold wasn't _that _nasty, but it was still a bit extreme, really. And the Shadow Thieves?"

"Bunch of wankers," Harrian muttered into his wine glass.

"Exactly!" Imoen agreed cheerfully. "Fancy joining me in taking them down a peg or two?"

Harrian blinked, looking up. All eyes at the table were focused on him, from the amused Reynald, the curious Anomen and Imoen, and the strangely impassive Jaheira. "Me? Erm... what am I doing next?"

"I don't believe you have many pressing engagements on the immediate calendar," Jaheira said, and Harrian glanced at her to see that, although her expression was calm, there was a mixture of amusement and glee dancing in her eyes.

"Well. I... I suppose I do have a life ahead of me." Harrian set his glass down, blinking. "Let's see... I've died. I've won a fist-fight with a God. I've gone to Hell. I've had my mortal soul ripped out of my body, then returned. I've been turned into a drow. I've been declared a friend to all elves everywhere. I've commanded an army. I've been named the hero of more towns and cities than you could shake a stick at." He sighed. "But there's something important I haven't done."

Anomen cocked his head to the side slightly. "What, my friend?"

Harrian grinned – and this was a smile without any hint of a smirk of arrogance, or any fatigue from darkness within. None of them, not even Jaheira or Imoen, had seen him smile quite that broadly or honestly before. "Whatever _I _want to do."

"Knock, knock."

Anomen straightened up rapidly from where he was laying out his armour neatly at the foot of his bed in his room of the Amkethran inn, almost sending it tumbling to the floor with his anxious speed. "Uh, enter!" he called out as quickly as he could, instantly having recognised the voice.

Imoen poked her head around the half-open door before stepping in, the spring in her step not hiding the hesitance he fancied not many other than he would have been able to spot in her eyes. "Heya. Just, uh... packing?" she asked, with forced innocence.

"Well, yes. It is, ah, a long way to Athkatla. We should all be going as soon as we can, so as to be able to begin... the rest of our lives so much sooner." Anomen managed to smile a smile he knew looked stupid, from a mixture of nerves and her sheer intoxicating presence.

"Yep. True." Imoen rocked back and forth on her heels a little bit. "So... Athkatla. The Order. The Church. Plenty to do."

"My duties here have been important, and all recognise that." Anomen nodded. "But I am looking forward to, perhaps, more quiet devotion to Helm and the Radiant Heart. Then again, anything is likely to be more quiet than the last year." He smiled wryly.

"I think armies of marauding giants would be a lot calmer," Imoen agreed with her own uncertain smile. "You're expecting... well, that? Lots of duties out and about? Moving around a lot? Chasing after good deeds, the whole... knightly thing?" Her feet shifted again.

Anomen sat down on the bed slowly, looking at his hands. "I imagine I would have... plenty of opportunities to do so. With my experiences, I could serve as a troop commander in the Order, or perhaps on errant duties. For the Church, spreading the word of Helm near and far is ever a possible, and encouraged task."

"So, when you said... Athkatla, you meant... wandering. On your duties." Imoen halted by the door, leaning against it slightly, looking rather uncertain.

He raised his head to glance at her, faltering for a moment. "I... well... there is lots I could do _in _Athkatla. Training, sermons. Of my experience, of my devotion to Helm... I would certainly be one of the most powerful of his followers in the city. And as a soldier for the Order, my worth might be unproven to them, but it is still clear. I imagine I would have my pick of duties... near and far." Another hesitation as he looked back down. "If I have reason to stay near... or reason to go."

Imoen paused for a moment, glancing around the spartan room and nodding slightly, almost to herself. "I guess I'll be sticking around the city. I mean, the Cowled Wizards can be dealt with, I figure. Can talk to Nalia, Valygar, any of the other friends we have with some oomph about the place. Talk about maybe shifting things politically. And with the Shadow Thieves... I think I can give them a good kick in the shins."

"All in the city," Anomen checked slowly.

"All in the city," she repeated.

There was another silence until Anomen stood up gingerly, padding over to the window to shift one of the shades a tad more shut, discouraging night-time insects from invading. "So, ah... where will you be residing? I suppose the Five Flagons is no stranger to your custom, but..."

"Well, you see, I do know someone in the city who has their own house. Lots of space spare. It just depends, I suppose, upon whether or not they can put me up." At last, Imoen's voice gained a shade more momentum, though he didn't turn back to face her.

"Really?" Anomen raised an eyebrow slowly, hesitantly. "And, ah... why would they not welcome your presence?"

"We've had a hard time of things, the two of us. Gone through a lot. Changed a lot." He heard her shuffle her feet again with uncertainty. "And, I suppose, I kind of freaked out about what was going on, and might have been a lot... nastier than I meant to be."

Anomen turned around slowly, expression as impassive as he could make it. "You had a disagreement?"

Imoen blinked, straightening up a little, and leaning back to push the door closed with a gesture that made the motion seem much less important than they both knew it really was. "Neither of us were really understanding the other. But, um... that problem's gone now. We should be fine. Provided, you know... he doesn't think that I don't care any more." A pause, gone in the blink of an eye. "I still do. I really do."

"I'm sure someone you're this close to... knows that." Anomen smiled softly, glancing down a little sheepishly. "I am sorry that I..."

She had flown across the room in that moment before he could finish the sentence, interrupting him by raising a finger to his lips. "Don't say you're sorry," Imoen whispered, pretences utterly collapsing. "I shouldn't have... I'm sorry that I..."

"If I do not get the chance to apologise, my lady, then neither do you. The problem is, as you said... gone. No more is Bhaal to dictate our lives. Every decision that we make now, we make for ourselves. For no outside purpose. I think we are both done allowing others to rule our existences." Anomen's voice was soft, reassuring, and his hands were unconsciously coming down to rest at her waist.

"I guess... you're right. We can do... what we want. Stick around in Athkatla if we wish to... live our own lives... as we want them to be." Imoen glanced down at the ground, still slightly tense, bunched up, uncertain. "I get to make decisions for me. Not for Bhaal, or prophecies, or anything."

"Whatever that makes you happy in the world, you can find it." Anomen gave a faint smile. "If you are going to Athkatla simply to 'fight the good fight', then... only do so if that is really what you wish to do with your life. I think you have earned an opportunity to do nothing... to live quietly."

"Living quietly would drive me quite mad, Anomen." She looked up briefly, a smile tugging at her lips. "And that's not what I mean. I mean... all decisions in the future, I'm going to make for me. Not for Bhaal, or anyone else. And... fixing decisions I did make."

Anomen straightened up, looking faintly confused, with just the slightest hint of slow realisation. "You..."

She silenced him again, this time by raising her head and giving him the softest of kisses on the lips. "If it's too late... if the ship has sailed, then I understand. But if not..." Another brief kiss, enough to make him ready to melt into the ground there and then. "Marry me?"

Another pause from Anomen, this one of stunned joy. "I... the ship is still..." His voice trailed off, then he took a deep breath and raised a hand to brush her cheek gently. "I would not give up hope even when it looked as if Bhaal was going to triumph. I would have fought him for you even if it had meant my death. I preferred the notion of dying in an effort to return you than living on... without you..."

Imoen raised an eyebrow, smiling that bright and intoxicating smile which was always enough to fill his head with a faint, but not unpleasant buzz. "So that long-winded speech there would be a yes, right?"

"Copper for your thoughts?"

Jaheira shifted slightly, pushing some of the blankets back further down the bed from the sweltering heat and the warmth of Harrian lying next to her. She ran a hand lightly over his bare chest, resting her head on his shoulder, and let out a slow breath.

"Just marvelling at... the strangeness of this," she murmured, smiling slightly as he stroked her hair. "I thought I would never be here again. With you..." A pause, a blink. "With anyone. I thought I was..."

"I won't leave you to be alone again. Dying once sounds like enough for me for the next sixty or so years." She could feel him smiling even as he kissed her forehead. "But... yes. This is a little... weird. I mean, are you okay? I know this is..."

"Weird? You did say that." It was her turn to smile, a quiet, thoughtless, happy smile. "If I wanted to talk about this with any great urgency, I am certain I would have found time to discuss matters over the last six hours since we returned."

Instead, they had dug a grave, held the briefest of strange ceremonies, had dinner to talk of the future... then retired to their room and fallen into bed with a passionate, needy grasping at clothes and each other. Truly, it was the first time they had been able to speak in a quiet moment since two nights earlier.

Of course, that had been right as they thought their worlds were going to end, and it had hardly been on the best of terms. Yet those days were, as they both knew – yet could hardly believe – over.

"I think we've prioritised nicely." A quiet, happy chuckle from Harrian as he squeezed her shoulder slightly. "What's mostly strange? Not just still being here. I didn't think I'd ever be here again either – so much as I could... _think_. But... being able to lie here with you and, for once, honestly think that everything in the world is fine."

"Nothing on the horizon or the back of your mind." Jaheira gave a small, satisfied sigh as she shifted a little closer to him.

"Only... Sarevok." She felt him tense up a little, and raised a hand to lightly stroke his goatee, a small, reassuring gesture. "Bhaal was set to destroy the lives of all of his children save two. I just... he deserved a chance."

"All of them deserved a chance. But, I think, few suffered as deeply as you, or fought so hard to earn it." She lifted herself up slightly on one elbow to look down at him, hair dangling slightly into his face. This prompted a grin from him, and raising a hand to brush it away, coming to linger at her cheek. "Regardless," she continued, "it was his decision. He could have lived, and redeemed himself, and done good in the world. Or he might have faltered. There was darkness within him away from Bhaal."

"He didn't have the chance to," Harrian said, a faint sadness in his eyes despite his smile, despite his relaxation at being by her side.

"He himself admitted that his desire to do good stemmed only from wishing to stay out of the Abyss upon his second death. Hardly the depths of righteousness. He has his wish. He has ended... somewhere peaceful. Or at least _happy_." She paused, wincing briefly to consider the important distinction in such words in relation to Sarevok.

"I suppose he hardly has cause to complain." Harrian flopped back a little, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. "I just wish the others, the less lucky ones, could have had a similar chance."

"I will not forgive you if you feel guilty." She leaned down to kiss the tip of his nose. "You lived, and they did not. It was not through actions, or even... deserving, I suppose. Sometimes, that is the way of the world, and the cycle."

"I hope death stays out of my world for a good long time." Harrian lifted his head to find her lips with his. "It's beginning to rather bore me."

"Have you given thought to where we go next?" she asked quietly.

Harrian raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"We," Jaheira confirmed. "I do not feel particularly inclined to readjust to sleeping alone." There was a simple certainty in her voice, and a faint amusement at sighting the lingering uncertainty of his at her own intentions.

He smiled again, that broad, honest smile promising the world and his life in it. "Anywhere. See what's out there. I've travelled far... but I don't know if it's far enough. Luskan? Calimshan? The Dalelands? Rashemen? To tell the tales of Minsc?" Another faint chuckle.

"Not to return to Candlekeep, to indulge in the books you pretend to not love so much?" Her own slight amusement kicked in there.

"It would be too small for me, now." Harrian's gaze lowered for a moment, and his expression grew faintly more serious. "I do want to find Haer'Dalis, however."

She straightened up again, expression dark. "I suppose... the bard needs to pay." She could feel her gut tightening, a mixture of anger and vengeance, and wishing to put the last few years behind her.

"No..." Harrian sounded a little absent-minded. "I want an explanation. That's all. I want to know why." Jaheira glanced back, and he looked both thoughtful and regretful. "I trusted him. Not... a _lot_, but... I trusted him. I want to know why he did it." There was a brief pause, then the smile tugged at his lips again. "And I want to see the look on his face, but that's quite different."

"We can ask. And we can find him. Then, perhaps, meet up with the others in Athkatla..." Jaheira looked thoughtful.

"Or find wherever Reynald has ambled to," Harrian pointed out. "And then... the world. I wasn't much happier than I was those days of wandering the land near Baldur's Gate, despite the dark times. But... the freedom. The sights out there." He looked up at her. "And... there's nothing I'd want more than to see it all with you, my love."

"I have seen much of the world," Jaheira confessed, lying back down to be wrapped up in his welcoming arms again, "but not all, or even most, and even less with you... my love." It was a pause to savour the words, rather than hesitation.

"The Underdark? Suldanessellar?" Harrian raised an eyebrow faintly. "Don't say I don't take you anywhere. My own personal pocket plane? The throne of a dead God? Hell...?" The list, ending as it seemed to be, was still cut short at the interruption from Jaheira of a determined kiss, and falling back into the blankets of the bed neither seemed inclined to leave any time soon.

The last of the rooms occupied by the party was still fairly full, despite the lone occupant. Taking charge of Jaheira's Bag of Holding, to while away a night alone, Reynald had volunteered to take stock of their equipment. So much of it was powerful, effective in the right hands, and had the potential to go to waste if not used. A solid portion seemed set to be donated to the Order of the Radiant Heart, and others to go to worthy pockets of the land they knew of, were it not being used.

And there was a considerable amount. Enchanted swords, although often embraced by Harrian and his seemingly endless collection – limited often by only how many he could strap to his body – were still plentiful. Armour, shields, bows, spears... worth enough in gold for them to live in luxury forever.

Reynald doubted this would happen with any, but taking stock of their possessions and their possible price was still a worthwhile task.

Not to mention, suitably distracting. From the dark hauntings of his past, to the endless stretching of his future, and the quiet loneliness of his present. Not loneliness from his companions, for he neither begrudged their absence nor felt that their presence would truly be enough. He could usually fill his days and nights with conversation, training, fighting, philosophising. It was not only in these quiet moments, however, when he could notice the gap in himself and his world.

Torm. Torm, who, despite it all – despite the pleading, the cursing, the good deeds, the righteousness committed in His name – still remained quiet.

As it should be. As it would, he believed, always be. Reynald knew he could live his life without the presence of his God, and that he would have to. Once a fallen paladin... it would define his existence. Never again could he return to the Halls of the Radiant Heart with his head held high, nor should he. He had lived the life of a man holding himself to a higher duty than all of those around him, and had failed utterly.


	63. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Winter in Baldur's Gate was a cold, harsh affair, full of snow and ice and a chill to freeze bones. It made travellers stay at home, and meant that the warm fire in an inn's busy common room was increasingly popular.

The Elfsong Tavern capitalised on the cold chill by keeping its bar cosy and inviting to any who might consider it. Be they customers spending an evening in the common room as they passed through town, or workmen having a drink as they returned home, it was a small centre of warmth and cheer away from icy roads.

Thus the ale flowed freely, the fire crackled merrily, and the innkeeper did his level best to make sure there was entertainment. Travelling bards received a large discount on their rooms if they would entertain the other guests, and tonight it seemed the Elfsong had struck gold with its rhymester for the evening.

Haer'Dalis the bard had kept the common room cheerful for many long hours by the time the patrons began to substantially go to bed and the bar began to empty. Songs of war, songs of love, songs of life… he'd used up all of his repertoire for a free room.

Almost all of his repertoire, that was. There had been some disappointment on certain faces when he'd declined to play his ballad of the Bhaalspawn saga, but the tiefling knew it wouldn't be fitting. Not tonight. Not with what was to come. It would have been… disrespectful.

Artfully ironic, but in rather bad taste.

"Rather good, Mister Haer'Dalis," the innkeeper told him as he collected empty tankards from the tables in the emptying common room and the bard put his lute away. "Definitely earned your keep tonight, I'd say. Sure I can't entice you to play again tomorrow?"

"A most gracious offer, my good hound, though I fear I must decline." Haer'Dalis gave a deep nod as he closed the case to his instrument and straightened up. "My journey demands my company. I fear I may even have to leave sooner than I expect."

"Well, you and your songs are welcome here any time," the innkeeper said, ambling back over to the bar. "You just drop by and I'm sure everyone will be happy to hear you play."

"Alas, I think I will be unable to oblige. I believe I shan't be passing through this tavern again after tonight." Haer'Dalis hefted the case slightly, then slung it over his back, reaching for his cloak.

"No?" The innkeeper looked a little disappointed. "Business up north that'll keep you busy? More grand adventures so you have more to sing about?"

"Oh…" Haer'Dalis wrapped his cloak around him. "The greatest adventure of all, my good hound. Now, if you'll excuse me…" His gaze drifted about the empty common room, noting a few particular abandoned seats, and settled on the stairs up to the rooms. "I think I shall retire for the evening. I thank you for your hospitality."

"Right. You got your key, Mister Haer'Dalis?" the innkeeper asked lightly.

"Of course. You may lock up, sir. I shall not require your services again tonight." Haer'Dalis nodded, then stepped over towards the stairs, shifting his case from hitting the low roof as he ducked under the doorway and made his way up through the gloom towards his room.

The Elfsong Tavern was busy this night, in this winter, with travellers eager for somewhere warm, prepared to pay the extra coin for a better inn where they would not freeze in the city. It would have been hard work for him to get a room... had he not been such a welcome guest and entertainer.

His door unlocked smoothly, just as he had left it, and he stepped into his gloomy room, small, but warm, and snug. The fire was crackling merrily at the wall, made up by a maid earlier, he presumed, and making the shadows dance erratically about the corners. He moved to throw his cloak onto the chair by the door, closing it behind him and moving to set his case carefully down on the floor.

"Don't move," a voice from behind him uttered, quiet and entirely controlled, and followed with the faint whistle of the drawing of a blade.

Haer'Dalis did, straightening up and adjusting the collar of his shirt, before moving to perch on the bed, warming his hands in front of the fire. There was a moment's pause before he looked to the darkened corner the voice had come from, near the large, comfortable chair which was hardly visible in the gloom.

"A good entrance, my raven. Had I not been expecting you, that would have thoroughly surprised me. I can't even see you. Potion of Invisibility?" he raised an eyebrow, brushing a blue lock behind one ear.

"Scroll. Immy scribed one for me," Harrian's voice said, before he slowly faded back into vision. Had it not been for his infravision, Haer'Dalis knew he would never have been able to make out the thief in the shadows of the room. "Cheaper than a potion."

"I have to say I had never given you credit before for being stealthy. Most excellently done." Haer'Dalis patted down his pockets calmly, frowning for a moment, before pulling out a small silver case. He flipped it open, and extended it towards Harrian. "Cigar?"

Harrian reached out to calmly take one, Haer'Dalis seeing the throwing knife in his right hand. "I thought you would have more of a sense of drama, my friend. I had this set up to be suitably exotic and dramatic. Why, I didn't even know you knew that I was alive. I had hoped that would surprise you."

"We could try this again, and I could believe for a time that I had seen a ghost?" Haer'Dalis lit his cigar carefully on the crackling fire, offering it towards Harrian for him to light his. "Though I am not entirely sure I have quite enough energy for the cowering and remorse that spectral visitations traditionally require. I am in much more of a mood for a cigar with a friend."

"A friend whom you killed," Harrian pointed out, frowning the frown one usually did when one was stuck in a conversation with Haer'Dalis – that of confusion and faint irritation.

Haer'Dalis waved a hand dismissively. "You are still here, no?" He leaned forwards a little, finally appearing curious. "How, exactly, did you overcome that? Your body faded, you were indeed dead..."

"A tale for another time. I am here to ask the questions, and much as I would love to chat of the world with you – that's a blatant lie, by the way – I don't have the time or inclination." Harrian took a drag on the cigar, leaning back in his chair and idly tossing the knife high in the air, catching it with ease, hardly moving.

"Then what are you here for, my raven. Vengeance?" Haer'Dalis looked rather unconcerned at the notion of such a fatal possibility.

"I don't think so." Harrian shook his head slightly. "I want an explanation. Why did you betray me?"

"Betray you? My raven, I believe that you might be being somewhat imprecise in this matter..."

The knife flew through the air, whistling past his head, and Haer'Dalis felt a small nick of pain at his right ear. Despite himself, he let out a faint yelp of surprise, raising a hand to grasp at his now slightly bleeding lobe. It was only a minor cut, he could feel, but unexpected.

"Answers. Why did you kill me? Stab me? Attack me? Why?" Harrian's voice was hard and cold, and Haer'Dalis could see him drawing a second throwing knife. He knew that the miss – or mostly-miss – had been entirely intentional. He didn't underestimate Harrian's accuracy or skill.

Grimacing with pain and irritation, Haer'Dalis held his ear, wearing a slight scowl. "Jealousy. I saw the giddy heights you had attained and wished that power, that strength for myself."

There was a pause, and he looked up to see the quizzical expression on Harrian's face. He smiled broadly before pressing on, standing slowly. "Hatred of the Bhaalspawn, for seeing all they had done to the realms! Or, perhaps, a simple dislike of you yourself, of your anger and your cockiness! I saw you as too much of a threat with what you had done to the army, and thought you were a danger that should be removed! Maybe even not for hate of you, but hate of all of your friends, wishing to hurt them by taking away their hearts by slaying you?"

Harrian scowled. "Bard, what _are _you..."

"Take your pick, my raven! Choose whichever reason serves the story best; it shall carry on regardless. We are in the closing chapter now – or, perhaps, this is just a footnote? The tale is told, the book is almost shut, and it matters not why it happened. Decide on what shall let you sleep best at night, and that shall be your truth." Haer'Dalis allowed his smile to grow broader, almost to that of a grinning madman.

The former Bhaalspawn stood up, tall and imposing in the tricks of the shadows from the fire, cigar smouldering still in his lips, free hand twitching towards the Daystar strapped to his back. "If you do not give me an answer that satisfies, I _might _begin to think about vengeance..."

"And now the vicious threats. How the mighty fall when things go awry." Haer'Dalis sat back down, delicately pulling a handkerchief out of a pocket and making a makeshift bandage for his stinging ear.

"I just want the truth." Harrian glared.

"The truth," Haer'Dalis declared with a faint smugness, "is just an excuse for a lack of imagination." The Daystar was half-drawn, and Haer'Dalis took another drag on his cigar. "But, my raven, as you ask so politely..." His voice trailed off, and he took a few moments to gather his thoughts, pain irritatingly interrupting the flow of the moment. "Besides… you did rise above the story, beyond the lines, and far sooner than I expected."

Harrian sat down slowly, sheathing the Daystar again, but still gripping his throwing knife as he descended to the gloom of the chair. "Just talk."

The bard sighed. "I hear many stories. Everyone tells the travelling rhymester what they've overhead, what tales have interested them. After I left your company in Athkatla, I heard much about the Bhaalspawn saga, and, as you know, exchanged tales of your feats in return.

"I even heard some rumours of yet more prophecies of the Bhaalspawn, secret ones not in the eyes or ears of even those most publicly interested in the saga. It took bribery and the libraries of Candlekeep for me to find Alaundo's writings of the Eight… and then I travelled as fast as I could to Saradush, finding myself there just before the city was besieged by Yaga-Shura."

"So you knew about the predicted deaths, you knew about the strongest spawn… and you didn't tell me?" Harrian had clearly tensed up, and Haer'Dalis wondered for a moment if his other ear was going to be at risk. "That's not an explanation, bard."

"The story missed an important player. As the Eight fell, it became clearer and clearer as to who was whom. I, like everyone, thought Imoen to be… an observer. The last of the Eight was still lost to me; I believed the survivor was to be you. Just as everyone else did." Haer'Dalis shook his head. "So when I slew Asrael and it became clear to me that he was just another of the cattle of spawn, I had to… re-evaluate."

Harrian's lip curled. "I thought Asrael might have been you," he mumbled darkly. "How did you know he wasn't one of the Eight, like we all thought?"

Haer'Dalis grinned toothily, puffing on his cigar. "I have blood in my veins not of this plane, my raven. It was enough to at least sense that his death felt entirely different to the death of Yaga-Shura. So, as time went on, it became clear that Imoen was one of the Eight; and as I considered it further, I became convinced that she was the one to survive, not you. After all, she was the wild card, the one nobody expected. It would be the perfect twist for Bhaal to deliver." Haer'Dalis shook his head a little. "Though I did not expect to do what I had to until Balthazar died. I thought it possible fate would not require my intervention. I was wrong."

Harrian remained motionless, still seated in the large chair, cigar in mouth, tossing throwing knife from hand to hand by now. "So you intervened... for the sake of the Prophecy. For the sake of the _story_." His voice was tight, hard, and Haer'Dalis was very familiar with what Harrian's battle for self-control sounded like. The fact that Bhaal couldn't be fuelling this one made it even more entertaining.

"A traitor was needed; none was available. Had I seen the course of events sooner, I might have been able to supply one more efficiently; convinced one of the others that, perhaps, ending your life was the only possible way for the realms to remain safe, or poisoned someone's mind." Haer'Dalis looked up from the fire. "'twas clumsier than, perhaps, I would have liked."

Harrian let out a long sigh, letting loose a good deal of the tension within him. "You served the story," he murmured, scratching his forehead.

"The tale lacked a pivotal role," Haer'Dalis said with a deep nod. "I offered my services."

"And if you hadn't? What if you'd just kept quiet? Stayed put? _Helped_? I might have been dead permanently, it might have ended _everything_..." Harrian's fist was clenched tight, and he couldn't meet the bard's gaze.

"If I hadn't? Then... the world would be a different place." Haer'Dalis shrugged. "I _did_. I did because it was prophesised, and it was prophesised because I did it. If I hadn't... I imagine you and I would not be having this conversation, at the very least." He tossed the remains of his cigar into the fire, straightening up and looking at Harrian. "Shall we get this done, then?"

Harrian blinked, jerked slightly out of his anger. "Done?"

"Why you are here, now you have your answers. Using that knife. The night is late, and I don't have forever to die, you know. If we leave it too long, the dramatic beat will be gone, and then it will just be a sad little death, rather than a murder fuelled by vengeance and hate and true emotion. '_My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense_...'"

"You're mad," Harrian decided at last. "I always thought you were just weird; figured on the planes, or your tiefling blood. But no, you're just stark, raving mad."

"That would be what all of those who don't understand me say, my raven." Another shrug from Haer'Dalis. "I imagine the good wildflower disagrees. She understands... she recognises the roles in life, and in me..."

"That would be why she never condemned you for acting like a complete ass towards her." Another frown from Harrian, this one more annoyed than angry. "But I'm not going to kill you." He stood up slowly, deliberately. "I'm going to forgive you. No more death. No more blood. You might be crazy, you might have been serving the mad piece of paper, but in your way, Haer'Dalis, you were trapped up in the doom of the Bhaalspawn Prophecies as much as anyone with blood was. Your part to play must have been as compelling for you as the voices in our heads."

"Forgiveness." Haer'Dalis watched Harrian walk past him towards the door he had to have picked the lock of earlier in the evening to get in the room. "A novel ending to the tale."

"No condemnation of those for what they did under the influence of Bhaal. And a chance for everyone to live a life free of it." Harrian managed a smile as he stood by the door; wry, and only faintly amused.

"Happy. Hopeful." Haer'Dalis cocked his head to one side. "Not how I expected the story to end. And, I think, false."

Harrian blinked. "False?"

"Are you a happy man, full of peace and love for the world now that Bhaal is gone? Oh, he whispers in your ear no more, blood no longer excites you, but I can still see the entropy within you, my raven." Haer'Dalis moved to light another cigar calmly. "You are still a killer, still have the skills and tools to hand with which to deliver death with astounding speed and efficiency. Bhaal may not affect you directly now, but the lessons he taught you cannot be unlearned."

"I'm working on it." Harrian scowled.

"You will always be a Child of Murder, my raven. For that, I am sorry. Perhaps death was the only way to avoid it. There will still be those who will hunt you down for what Bhaal did to you, made you, had you do. There are still the marks on your mind, body and soul from what Bhaal did. You understand, my raven?" Haer'Dalis let out a small, rather unamused chuckle. "You will never be free of him."

Harrian's frown deepened. "I do hope I never see you again, bard. Feel free to tell the stories of me, they're quite good. But I never, ever want to hear from you."

"Am I still forgiven?" Haer'Dalis asked, almost mockingly, as Harrian pulled the door open.

A pause from the thief, taut and angry in the doorway. "For my sins, yes," he decided. Then he went to step out.

Instinct took over – instinct, combined with memory – as he heard the sound of steel on steel with the drawing of Haer'Dalis' blades behind him, and a step on the floorboard only a metre or so away from him. As such, by the time the bard reached him, the Daystar was already in his hand for him to whirl around and unthinkingly strike.

The longsword ran the tiefling through instantly as he almost charged onto it. Haer'Dalis let out a gasp of pain, Chaos and Entropy falling from his hands, before his gaze rose to meet Harrian's wide, astonished eyes. "You see...? I am swift... my raven. Had I stood a true chance... I swear... I would not have struck. Not this time..."

He staggered back, sliding off the blade, and falling back onto the floor with a thud. Blood was seeping out of him slowly, beginning to expand in a pool on the ground. "But you... killing, far too much in your nature. Skill enough to not kill... kill... instinct." Haer'Dalis coughed, blood escaping through his lips, the cigar having fallen to the floor as he had launched his attack. "Curse this pain... who would have thought gasping out a lengthy soliloquy of death would be so painfully impossible?" The sentence was said in a rush, and was clearly agonising to utter.

"I didn't mean..." Harrian knelt before him, angry and horrified all at once. "Damn you, bard... you can't blame me for my instincts!"

"No..." Haer'Dalis agreed slowly, coughing a little again. "I _can _blame... Bhaal..."

"You little rat bastard," Harrian muttered at him venomously. "Just to get your bloody _story_..."

"Just a story?" The laugh came with a gurgling of blood and a fresh cough. "Never just a... story, my raven. The tale's the thing... of all of us. Who and what we are. Forgiveness would have been so dull... and forced... such a lie... because you don't." Yet another cough, and Haer'Dalis rested his head back, effort of staying alive taking its toll. "Or... potion. Spell. Healing. Something. Damn pain... sentences..."

"No... I don't forgive you." Harrian rested his head in his hands, a stinging in his eyes, a burning in his throat as he knelt next to the dying bard. "You bastard. I don't forgive you. I loathe you. I'll grieve for you, and then I'll bury you, and good damn riddance." He looked Haer'Dalis in the eye, shaking with grief and fury. "Happy now?"

Another gurgling, coughing laugh. "Honesty..." A deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you, my raven. Be... be true to... yourself." Then he swallowed heavily, and closed his eyes for the last time.

Harrian knelt in silence as Haer'Dalis' gurgling breathing stopped, and the blood continued to seep across the floorboards of the inn room. It was with slow, deliberate moves that he took the corner of Haer'Dalis' cloak and wiped the Daystar clean before sheathing it again. He reached over for the cigar, still smouldering on the floor, and popped it delicately in between Haer'Dalis' lips. It wilted a little but remained intact.

Then he stood slowly, still glowering at the bard's body. "You little rat bastard," he muttered again. "'Be true to yourself'? Why not wish for me to live in interesting times? Equally bloody damning." Then he turned on his heel, and strode out the door, unseen and unnoticed in the gloom of the Elfsong Tavern in the middle of the night.

A few slightly bloody footprints followed him about as far as the stairs, but faded by they reached the common room, leaving no sign of death or devastation for the public eye, as with all things.

It had ended in that room of the Elfsong Tavern, as it had begun in those rooms of Candlekeep, with murder.

**The End.**


End file.
